


The Minutes Till My Heartbeat Stops

by Skalidra



Series: Earth-3 Storyline [17]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Forever Evil (Comics), Justice League: Crisis on Two Earths
Genre: Earth-3, Jealousy, Love Confessions, M/M, Major Character Injury, Meet the Family, Mirror Universe, Open Relationships, Serious Injuries, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-08 01:28:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3190709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jason Todd - aka Red Hood - is untouchable, a paragon of training and skill that I will never, ever be able to match. Until the day he isn't, and it comes crashing down in sharp relief that he's just a man, and every man can bleed. He's not invulnerable any more than I am, and it <em>frightens</em> me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This is part of a larger continuity of stories. Please consult the series page for the master reading list if you want to read them in order.**
> 
>  
> 
> Hey guys! So, this is the first part of a three-chaptered piece about the turning point of the Jason/Roy relationship. Well, _a_ turning point. See, these two just blindsided me. They're so damn adorable together, and Roy is a total dork but he's self aware and fantastic about it. This definitely only started out as a 'Jason gets hurt and Roy freaks out' slice of life, but then it morphed and now it is important plot in my Earth-3 storyline.
> 
> Enjoy!

The hero I'm shooting at — Cheshire, and _oh_ have we already been introduced — ducks away from the swing of my bow, slicing at my face with nails way too accurate to her name. They nearly catch me, and I have to fall and flip back to not get nailed with scratches that — at the total _least_ — would take me out of play for at least the day. Damn sedated nails, among other things. Being sedated is the lucky option, of course. She is a _hero_ , even if she is one of Ra's', so it's not like anything she uses is immediately fatal, but that doesn't mean it won't hurt like a bitch.

We've done some fighting before. I think she likes me.

"Red!" I call, and a second later Cheshire recoils from where she was coming after me, blood beading bright on her tanned skin from the graze of a bullet past her neck.

"Busy!" he shouts back, about fifteen feet to my right, and I spare one glance to see that there's some big, made-of-metal looking guy coming after him. He's an _Owl_ , so the guy's not hitting him, but it's a close thing and Jason is really, _obviously_ on the defensive. He's got one gun out in his left hand, his knife in the other, and miracle of miracles his helmet is still on.

I run for him, keeping my attention focused on Cheshire as she comes after me, and batting the throwing stars out of the air with my bow. It's good practice, really. In what might be one of the more suicidal things I've done today I skid down between Jason and his opponent, startling them both for a second as I draw one of my taser-arrows — they've got a real, 'fancy' name but that's what I call them for reference — and loose it towards the meat of the metal-man's torso.

It sticks, goes off, and he gives a shout and falls back, skin phasing out of metal and back to some weird combination of orange, purple, and white. "Swap?" I throw over my shoulder, at Jason. "You can handle Cheshire, right?"

He honest-to-god _laughs_ , sounding kind of vicious and really pleased. I glance sideways to see him face her, and I can't see her expression past the porcelain mask but she definitely backs off a step or two. "I can handle her," Jason confirms, with total certainty. "Not a problem." He spins the knife in his hand, and then he's leaping at her.

He gets halfway there before there's a _roar_. He jerks and ducks automatically, as I turn and Cheshire _leaps_ away, and then a blurred black shape crashes into the street about five feet from where Jason is crouching. The impact knocks him onto his back, and the thing in the crater gives another roar that _shakes_ the street, pulling itself out of the crater and _fuck_ that's _Doomsday_. Oh _fuck_.

Cheshire vanishes in an explosion of smoke, and Jason scrambles backwards but it's too late. A blur of motion, too fast for us regular humans to follow, and Jason _slams_ into the building to my right, breaking most of the way into a decorative pillar. Doomsday — what is he even _doing_ here? Doomsday isn't a _hero_ he's a _thing_ — follows him, _right_ past me.

I can see the shape shifting hero in front of me moving, getting up, out of the corner of my eye, but I can only stare as the black and grey _monster_ wraps a massive hand around Jason and _slams_ him against the pillar. Once, _twice_ , and he's not making any noise but his knife is gone and he's not _fighting_ either. The pillar finally breaks all the way on the third slam, and I can see one of the chunks of concrete, as it falls, smack into the side of Jason's helmet, I can _see_ it shatter.

Doomsday turns and _flings_ him down and away, and either by chance or the thing's smarter than it looks, Jason smacks into the street pretty much at my feet. He's limp, not moving and I can see blood on him, and I look back up at Doomsday for a second and he's staring at me, I'm _next_.

A red and blue blur slams into him, driving the monster into the ground, and there's a roar that cuts off as Ultraman solidifies into a shape I can see and his eyes burn red, down into Doomsday. He's got a snarl on his face, his costume is ripped and I think I can see blood dripping down one side of his face, but then the next moment he's reaching down and _flinging_ his monster into the air. With a blast of air and force that knocks the breath out of me, slams me back on my ass, he's launching after.

I focus down on Jason, catching my breath as I get to my knees and crouch over him. Not touching, not yet, and _Christ_ that's a lot of blood. The shape shifting hero moves and I _react_ , drawing an arrow and putting it to the string of my bow, aiming it up at him. He stares down at me for a second, and then raises his hands and backs off. He turns, starts to go, and it's stupid but I don't wait to see if he means it. I sloppily hook my bow over my back, slide the arrow away, and move to take a better look at Jason.

He's breathing at least, even if it's worryingly shallow, but there's a _lot_ of blood.

"Nightingale!" I shout, _praying_ that our coms are still up this time, that no one's fucked with it yet or fried our leader's. There's silence, and _fuck_ the back of Jason's jacket is shredded and there's blood dripping across the visible slice of his face. "If you're there _answer_ me you son of a bitch!" I shout again, _desperate_. "Fuck, _anybody!_ "

" _Black Talon here_ ," cuts in a voice, " _what's going on?_ "

I'm really starting to think that Nightingale should just _not_ be the one we look to for orders. He somehow _never_ fails to lose his com systems or have them not be working. Now is _not_ the time for us to not be able to contact him.

"Red's down," I blurt out, "lots of blood, I need an extraction and medical for him _right now_."

" _On it's way_ ," T says, with what sounds an awful lot like concern. " _Is there anything you can do for him?_ "

I swallow, _trying_ to pull together and figure out his injuries, trying to look past the pool of blood forming under the man I thought was _unbreakable_ , the mess of his leather jacket — he _loves_ that thing, he's going to be so _upset_ — and the unnatural angle of the arm lying over his chest. The blood is soaking through his clothing, the totally useless armor, and it's hard to see specifics under that but I tug off one glove and lower my hand to feel instead. Under the slippery, hot, _wet_ feeling of blood is leather, cloth, and what feels like stone and shards of metal. I look up at the pillar he was slammed through, and my breath stops short for a second.

Apart from the jagged edges of concrete, what _must_ be in his back, there are bent, broken, metal support bars. I can't account for all of them and that scares the _shit_ out of me.

" _No_ ," I gasp out, looking back down at Jason's form. He's so _still_. "I, I _can't_. Most of it's in his back — at least concrete, maybe metal — and I don't know what's left of his ribs. If I try stopping any of the bloodflow…" Any pressure against the gashes in his back might help slow the bleeding, but it could break cracked ribs, or drive shards of them into organs that he really, really _needs_. If I even try pulling any of that mess _out_ , all I'm going to do is make him die faster. I can do first aid but I'm not a medic and I'm not a surgeon, and _he_ needs both. Ideally he needs a healing metahuman _real_ fast.

" _What happened?_ " snarls a voice, _Nightingale_ , and somewhere underneath the fear for the broken man in front of me is _anger_. Where the _fuck_ was the older Owl-family member when Jason _needed_ him, why the _hell_ didn't he answer my first shout?

"Doomsday happened," I answer. "Ultraman threw him into the street and Red was too close; it happened too fast." Ultraman needs to keep better control of his enemies. Without warning or a plan we're just ants under that kind of power, and sure maybe I could do some damage or at least get the hell out of the way if I knew Doomsday was _coming_ — I _know_ Jason could; he's an _Owl_ — but without that? We're targets and punching bags.

You don't fling that kind of power around your allies without warning them, and you damn well shouldn't do it at _all_. It would be like me flinging a nuke in the middle of the fight without letting anybody know. Ultraman's real opponents are _dangerous_.

" _Is he breathing?_ " T demands, as I pull my glove on. The blood's still on my hand, on my fingers, but there's nothing I can do about that even if it really mattered.

"Yes," I answer, and there's a faint sigh of relief from my com. I couldn't tell you which ex-Talon made it. "Shallowly," I continue, and my throat feels locked tight and hard to push words through. "It doesn't sound wet." He's probably not bleeding into his lungs, at least. It would be more bubbly, I'd be able to hear it.

I lean over him, finding the catch on the bottom of his helmet — Jason showed me where it was a while back, taught me how to get it to come loose — and pulling the shattered frame off his head. Slowly, making sure I'm beyond careful. He's totally limp, mouth just slightly parted and face relaxed in unconsciousness, and he doesn't so much as twitch even when his skull falls the last inch or so to lie against the ground and his shoulder. There's blood sliding down his face from a slice near his hairline, where I saw the concrete hit, and it's covered a good portion of his jaw and leaked back into his hair.

"He got hit in the head with some rubble," I say into the silent coms, glancing up because where the _fuck_ is my transport? "The helmet broke, he's bleeding pretty bad, but I think he was unconscious before that happened." I don't think Jason was conscious for anything past that first impact with the pillar, I'm pretty sure he didn't have to feel the next three, or getting thrown at my feet. Small mercies.

I bite my tongue to keep from saying anything else, staring down at Jason and then taking another glance up at the street, the sky. Where is it?!

This isn't fair!

 _I'm_ the squishy one, I'm less of a threat, and I'm not as skilled as Jason is when it comes to any fight that isn't ranged. _I_ should be the one on the ground, by all rights it should have been me. If I hadn't switched our fights, if I hadn't sent Jason after Cheshire, _I_ would have been the one closest to Doomsday. It should have been _me_.

Jason is the better fighter, he can take more, he can _do_ more. The _only_ thing I'm better at is long ranged combat, and that's just not enough to make me worth more than him. If one of us deserves to live it's him, and if one of us is worth less than the other it _has_ to be me. If I could switch things, if I could change them, I'd never have swapped us. I could take the pain, and if I die so _what?_ Kori would do just fine on her own, and Jason has Nightingale. It's not like I mean enough to Jason for him to really grieve for me anyway, that's a _really_ one-way street and I'm alright with that. He has enough trouble just liking himself, he doesn't need to care for me on top of that.

I've got enough heart to love Jason for the both of us, and I can take the fact that I'm a convenience for him. He loves _Nightingale_ , and he _trusts_ him, and maybe I don't get that but it's alright. It's Jason's choice, and even though I know firsthand people are capable of loving more than just one person, it's not for everyone.

I can love Jason without him loving me back, that's _fine_. I know how to cope. I've been doing it with Kori for years.

I swallow hard and force myself to concentrate, to think past the fear and the mind numbing thought that Jason could _die_ on me. What will the medics do first, before they can treat him? What can _I_ do to help that move faster, or cut out anything standing between him and help?

 _Clothes_. They'll need to see the injuries, which means they'll need his jacket, shirt, and armor off. I can do that. I've stripped Jason enough times, and maybe he murders me later for slicing his jacket apart to get it off him but hey, if he's murdering me then he's _alive_. That's good enough for me. He could understand, and if he's still pissed I won't even be sorry.

I drag my knife out of the sheath at my thigh, swallowing again and taking a deep breath to stop my hands from shaking. I'm a _professional_ , right? If I can assassinate someone from far enough away that no one can even see me, without hesitation or even nerves, then I can cut clothes off a guy without my hands shaking. This is easy, and Jason _needs_ it so I can sort out all my other shit later because I have to _help_. It would be _sad_ if I let the man I love die, just because I was too afraid to keep myself steady when I could have done something.

And besides, what kind of a _cruel_ world would kill a guy twice, after he went through so much _hell_ the first time? Jason's already had his life yanked out from under him once, _fuck_ any world that would do it to him a second time.

I start at the broken arm lying down across his torso and onto the ground, carefully slicing apart the leather of his jacket, down to the end of the sleeve. My heart's in my throat, and I feel just a little sick, but I do it anyway. On the plus side, his arm might be at the wrong angle but when I shift the leather away from it there's no blood. The bone hasn't torn through his skin, so it's not as bad as it could be, not by a long shot. I try not to move it at all, try not to move _him_. Who knows what else could be broken, or what the shrapnel in his back might be in danger of damaging? _Fuck_ , what about his _spine?_

It's these kinds of times I wish I believed in a god I could pray to. Tell them; ' _please, not this one, not right now_ '.

The back of the jacket is shredded, and there's so much blood it's hard to see what's left of it, but I carefully, _slowly_ , pull the leather away from him. He twitches, breath catching just a little bit, and even though it scares the fuck out of me my heart takes a pit dive back to its rightful place in relief. He's still feeling, he's still at least a _little_ responsive, and that's _good_ , right? Even unconscious his body is reacting to pain, so that means he can still feel his back, which at least means his spine is probably mostly alright. Right?

I wish I knew more about all of this. First aid does _not_ cover stuff like this and I'm not normally the one taking care of downed teammates. Or lovers. Usually it's the opposite way around.

Jason should _not_ have gone down that fast. _Damn_ Ultraman. For once, I hope Owlman _hurts_ him for letting this happen. I'm not usually one to hope for a war, but this is _his_ fault and Owlman doesn't usually take it passively when people get his Talons hurt. Jason counts, and throwing an enemy into your allies, especially one as volatile and _dangerous_ as Doomsday, without immediately following, _counts_.

Before Doomsday, Jason was _fine_. Maybe a scrape or two, a few bruises, but nothing that isn't _always_ part of a battle this big. He was _fine_.

I stare down at the shreds of jacket, and there goes _all_ of my relief. It's… It's _bad_. There's more empty space then there is actual leather, and the edges are torn, jagged, _ripped_. That's not even counting the blood. I _swear_ this was brown just a few minutes ago. I know it was. I try not to even look at the shirt or the armor underneath yet, following the line of the jacket down to where it's caught at the bottom.

I _can't_ move Jason, I know that, and I can't reach the jacket that's pinned underneath him to get it off, so I'll just have to slice the jacket off where I _can_ reach and leave it at that.

I take the knife to the edge, slicing through the sections still together to leave only an inch or so before the rest of it, underneath him. _After_ I toss it to the side, I let myself look at the rest of his back for just a second. It's still hard to see just how bad the injuries are, through the scraps of his shirt and the black of the armor underneath, so I take in another deep breath and move on.

Come _on_. Did someone knock the damn transport out of the sky or are all of my allies just _useless_ when it really matters? This is _serious_. Jason's hurt and he's _dying_ , they can manage just a _little_ speed can't they?

I slice apart the shirt at his shoulder, and then go in again at the armor laid over it, working where I know the weakest parts of it are. _That_ , Jason's never told me, but I've run my hands over it enough to know where it feels thinnest, where it can't be as firm because Jason dodges more than he absorbs so he has to be able to _move_. Even at the weakest point I can find up there, it isn't easy to cut through. I have to saw through whatever material it's made of, but I grit my teeth and keep at it until I finally get all the way through. The buckles are on the opposite side, under his non-dominant arm for the sake of caution, and normally that'd be fine but right now it means I'll have to work to get it off him.

I peel the shirt — weaker than the jacket and so ripped apart I barely even have to use my knife — away from his back, and toss the scraps of fabric aside, over where his jacket is. I take a glance at the long line of armor down his side, and then at my knife. That would take _forever_ , but maybe…

Jason didn't have his knife after the first slam against the pillar, and I _know_ his knife is a step up above pretty much every other blade I've ever run across. It was a gift from someone he respects, and he treasures it about as much as his jacket — that's going to be a hell of a way to greet him if he lives — and it's dangerous. If I can figure out where it landed, then I can probably use it to get his armor off a whole lot faster, so I can actually see how bad the damage is.

Like I _need_ to see it to know that it's bad. The blood under my knees is enough to know that, isn't it?

I look up, taking my first seconds to scan around the remains of the pillar, and then along the line between the pillar and where he was crouching before Doomsday grabbed him. Nothing catches my eye, apart from the smeared blood and scraps of fabric still caught on some of the rubble. _Damn_. It has to be somewhere; under rubble or maybe just a bit out of view. If I get up for just a minute—

But what if I go looking and Jason stops breathing? What if I'm not here? What if I don't _notice?_ Then I can't leave him alone. If he's going to die someone should at least be here, right? I should be here. But grabbing his knife is useful. There's nothing useful I can do just kneeling here.

What the fuck do I _do?_

The whirring of engines cuts into my attention, and I snap my head up to find the sleek, black and grey lines of one of the Owl-family jets sinking down pretty much right in front of me. Ten or so feet away, and there's a bit of a rush of air but a lot less than I expect. Right, silence is kind of their thing, isn't it? The side starts to slide down in a ramp, and before it's more than about two feet down a black and blue shape slides out in the gap. Nightingale, grace in motion and running at me, dropping to his knees.

"Jason!" he nearly shouts, hands reaching out and then curling back, not touching or shaking like I was sure he was going to. I can see him put things together, see his head twist from the crater to his right, along the line to the broken pillar. He _snarls_ , head lifting to look at the sky, and over his shoulder I can see more figures slipping out of the jet. Black Talon and M'gann.

Then Nightingale's on his feet, and I follow him up more slowly, shakily. There had to have been some kind of orders given on the way, because Nightingale slips aside and then M'gann is there and Jason lifts off the ground smoothly, in exactly the same position. Good. That's good. Black Talon escorts him, smaller form slipping between the rest of us as his neck tilts to study the mess of Jason's back. I follow, and of course it's when I take my first step forward that metal catches my eye, _just_ out of view of where I was kneeling.

I detour to grab the knife, and I'm just turning back when Nightingale — at the side of the ramp and watching M'gann lift Jason in towards what looks like a gurney — gives a jerk of his chin and says, "Get him back to Gotham, T. I'll handle things here."

"Where are you taking him?" I ask, trotting back over and glancing up into the jet. One of their larger ones, designed for the whole group of them to be able to fit, probably.

"A friend," Nightingale snaps, "then to the Roost, until he's better."

The _Roost?_ As in the Owl's base that no one else ever gets into, ever? I don't _fucking_ think so.

"Woah, wait, _what?_ " I demand, taking a step forward towards Nightingale. "You are not taking him _anywhere_ I can't follow. Not in a million years."

Jason's other lover, the one he actually loves, turns fully towards me, and his mouth is a dangerous smile. More like he's flashing teeth at me to warn me he could tear my throat out if he wanted to. I think some part of him _does_ want to. It scares the hell out of me, but I'm already running high on a lot of adrenaline and terror as it is, and Jason means _more_ than all that.

"You have a _job_ to do," Nightingale spits at me.

"I _know_ that," I spit back, my hand tightening around the hilt of Jason's knife. "And the _second_ we're done I'm going to go to Jason's side and camp there until he wakes up. You _aren't taking him_ where I can't _do_ that. Not gonna happen."

Nightingale moves towards me, smile turning into a thin sneer. "You're not _family_ ," he hisses at me, "you don't have the _right_ , Arsenal."

I take a lot of shit, and normally I don't care, but _no_. Just because it's Nightingale that Jason loves, just because he's got a stronger hold, doesn't mean that mine is totally invalidated just like that. Jason trusts me — he _trusts_ me — and even if the sex is just that, I'm important to him in some way. I'm a friend, and he's _mine_ in at least that small way.

 _Damn_ Nightingale for thinking that he can tell me I don't have the _right_ to sit with Jason, to make sure he doesn't _die_ without me there.

I grind my teeth together, meeting his challenge head on and putting one of my feet very firmly on the metal ramp. "I have _every_ right," I snarl back, and that's not a tone I use very often; it actually seems to startle him just a little bit. I do my _very_ best to take my life as it comes, to weather what I can and laugh at what I can't, and I don't let myself get really, genuinely, _angry_ at my allies or my friends.

Right now Nightingale is only _barely_ the former, and there will be _blood_ — mine, but that's not the point — if he tries to stop me from watching over Jason.

"You're not an _Owl_ ," Nightingale hisses, and he looks about a step and a knife away from slicing open my leg to get it off the ramp. "You don't get privileges just because he _fucks_ you."

"I love him!" I shout, and then flinch back when it actually registers what I said and oh _fuck_ I haven't even dared saying that in front of _Jason_ yet. Nightingale goes _very_ still, and I swallow thickly. Fuck it, it's too late now. "He's _yours_ ," I say quietly, between us, "but I love him. _Please_ don't do this to me."

He's not sneering anymore, which is at least something, but I don't know if the flat line of his mouth is better or worse. I don't know Nightingale's expressions well enough to read him, the most I can usually do is tell you whether or not his smiles are intended as warnings. I'm generally good at reading when people's expressions are a step away from either pain or murder. Past that… I haven't seen Nightingale make this particular face much, and I don't know what it means. I don't know if he's thinking about actually letting me, or if he's considering gutting me for even _daring_ to try laying claim on what's _his_.

"Nightingale," snaps a voice to the side, Black Talon's, and apparently the utterance of his name means a whole lot more to Nightingale than it does to me.

He's _moving_ , and I barely have time for an instinctual jerk of motion backwards before he has me by the arm. He twists and it's like _lightning_ down my arm, spasming my fingers and forcing me to drop Jason's knife and he catches it. It slices up at my face, and for a second I'm convinced Nightingale is straight up _killing_ me for daring to even care for Jason, and I pull back but it's not far enough. There's a sharp sting and burn of pain across my right cheek, but I realize after a second that I'm not _dead_ , and that's something.

I gasp in a breath, and then the hilt of Jason's knife is pressing tight up against my jaw, into my throat. Nightingale is in my face, as tall as I am in those heeled boots of his, and his mouth is still that tight line. "This isn't _done_ , Arsenal." He pulls back, lets me go, and presses the hilt of Jason's knife into my hand. "T," he calls, turning away from me in dismissal, and I can't shake the feeling I just barely got out of that with my life. "The plan stands; Arsenal goes with you. M'gann!"

I manage to pry myself out of shock enough to watch M'gann sweep through and carry off Nightingale with her telekinesis, and then nearly run up the ramp and into the jet. Black Talon is at the helm, to the left, and the ramp rises before I'm even halfway in — my last few steps are more of a skid — and then the engines hiss to life and we're rising. He hits a few buttons and the area I can see of the nose, past the glass of the window, fades out of existence. He stands and whirls, black armor and cape turning him into what feels like a shadow more than a person.

Jason is laid out on the gurney-like surface, and Black Talon sweeps over to it. I jerk myself into action, following.

"What can I do?" I ask, staying far enough away that the younger Owl can move as he needs to without running into me. Not that an Owl would ever _run into_ someone unless they meant to.

"You cut the layers off?" he asks sharply.

"Yeah, and the helmet. I—" I have to swallow. "It was all I could think of. There's too much in the wounds for pressure, and his ribs, his _spine_."

"At least you're not an idiot," he says flatly, still not even looking at me. "Ship's on autopilot, it'll get us there as fast as possible. Everyone necessary has been called, we're just here to buy him some time. Tell me _exactly_ what happened, and cut the rest of his armor off while you talk."

With that he's turning, heading to what look like storage cabinets set into the walls, and I head forward to Jason's side. He's still breathing, thank _god_. I snap back to the realization that I'm still holding his knife, and lean down over him to start sawing at the bottom edge of the armor, at his waist.

"Doomsday hit the street next to us," I start, but keeping my focus on the knife in my hand and the armor. Jason does _not_ need any more holes in him. Jason's knife _does_ cut through his armor much better than my knife did. "Jason was only a few feet away, and he tried to get away but Doomsday threw him past me, into that pillar. I think the first hit knocked Jason out, but the bastard grabbed him, slammed him into the pillar until it broke. Three times, then threw him at my feet. When the pillar broke I saw a piece smack into the side of his helmet, where that cut is. It broke."

I'm most of the way through the armor, and I swallow and try to ignore the blood starting to stain the fabric covering the metal table. "I took the helmet off, cut away his jacket and shirt, started on his armor. When I felt his back I could feel concrete, and metal. He doesn't _sound_ like any of it damaged his lungs; he's breathing alright. He did react, twitched and his breathing stuttered a little bit when I pulled the jacket off him, so he can still feel."

The armor snaps, and almost instantly Black Talon is at my elbow, peering down and reaching forward to take the edge of the armor. I watch as he pulls it away from Jason's back, and real _fear_ tightens my throat.

" _Christ_ ," I whisper, and out of the corner of my eye I can see — some distant part of me notices — Black Talon's jaw tighten just a little bit.

Some of the debris comes away with the armor, which the younger Owl flattens down over the edge of the table, but most of it doesn't. The _only_ thing I can see that's good is that the damage is pretty much contained to between his shoulders and his lower back. Everything else is pretty much fine, except his broken arm. That has to be a plus, right? At least there's no damage to his legs, hips, his _neck_. He could be worse. Or dead.

"Take his mask off," Black Talon orders, pushing me back into action, and easily snags the knife from my hand. He starts at the other side of the armor, and he handles that knife like Jason does, like it's _part_ of him. "Then there's supplies in the storage I opened, clean what you can of the area around that head wound, get it to stop bleeding if it hasn't."

I'm doing what he wants before I really stop to think about it, and that kind of surprises me but I really don't _stop_. It's just a wake up call that while Nightingale might be the charming, dangerous, charismatic one, Black Talon has more of a knack for keeping people working and focused. I swear I've heard Owlman use that same tone before, too. Props to the kid for learning his mentor's talents, I guess.

I peel the mask away from Jason's face, setting it to one side of his head, and head for the open storage area. At a glance, I'm pretty sure it's got just about everything you could need for emergency surgery, plus a whole lot more for more basic first aid. I guess that makes sense. There's five Owls, and they're all human even if they're scary as hell. Humans can only take so much damage, and they actually have to care for the wounds unlike most of the metahumans out there.

Now first aid, first aid…

I grab a bottle labeled as saline water, and a package next to it of wipes. At least all the very basic first aid stuff seems to be shoved in the same corner; I imagine the Owls have pretty much got this memorized. After a second I probably can't spare, I grab a second bottle and package, and head back in a rush. My pair goes to this side of Jason's chest, and I reach over him and set the other pair down next to Black Talon.

He doesn't look up, but his mouth flickers in a small smile for just a second. Good, alright, work.

My hands aren't shaking anymore — overload of adrenaline, maybe? — and I pull open my bottle and package. I manage to not be a moron, and pull out a wipe to hold against his skin _before_ I rinse the wound down with the water. Jason _really_ doesn't need salt water in his eyes. Then it's just a case of wiping down the surrounding area.

The gash itself doesn't look too bad, and it _has_ already stopped bleeding. I definitely can't see any bone through it, and none of the shards from his helmet are stuck in it either. His helmet must have taken most of the force. I guess it is good for something, even if it breaks pretty much every fight. Without his helmet in the way, I don't think he would have survived that hit. I don't even think he would have made it out of hitting the pillar.

"Arsenal," Black Talon says quietly, and I freeze. _Fuck_ , what did I do? I was just swabbing, the gash should be fine and I didn't make it bleed again. The younger Owl doesn't look up from where he's working on the armor — it's nearly off — and he barely even seems to register my existence.

"What?" I ask, heart in my throat.

"If you're intending to take Jason from Nightingale, you should know that would be largely equivalent to suicide." He does glance up, briefly, as the armor comes apart and he tosses it aside. But Black Talon is even more of a mystery to me than any of the other Owls, even the big bad Owlman himself. I have no _idea_ what he's thinking underneath the half mask and large, round shine of his goggles. Jason seems to be able to, but I guess that's prolonged exposure to him or something.

Wait, _no_ , that wouldn't make any sense. This Talon was Jason's replacement, and by the time Jason came back he was already part of our team, an unofficial leader when Nightingale wasn't around. _I've_ known Black Talon longer than Jason has.

"Take him?" I echo, kind of confused though I admit I'm totally not thinking straight at the moment. I'm sure his statement — warning? — makes sense to anyone who isn't riding as high on fear, adrenaline, and worry as I am.

He glances up again, reaching for the bottle of saline water and unscrewing the top with a flick of his wrist. "From Nightingale, yes." He tucks Jason's knife away somewhere beneath the fall of his cape. "You're useful to the team, and I'd prefer not to lose your skillset or foster any kind of resentment with Red Archer. I have very little control over Nightingale, however, and he _will_ kill you before he'll let you have Jason. Love or not."

"Oh!" I exclaim, the pieces clicking together in my head. "No, no, I—" I swallow and shake my head. "Jason doesn't love me back, and he doesn't need me demanding anything from him. I'll be whatever he wants me to be, his choice. If he doesn't want me as anything more than a convenience then he never needs to know it's any deeper than that."

"Mmm." He sounds unconvinced, hands busy at Jason's back. Or maybe that's just me trying to read some kind of emotion or meaning into a blank sound of acknowledgement. With Black Talon, who knows?

"I'm not a threat," I try and push, and his mouth curves in a tiny smirk.

" _I'm_ not the one you need to tell that, am I?" Alright, okay, he's got a point. Black Talon isn't the one who pretty much threatened that there was a reckoning coming later on. He's _really_ not the one who sliced my cheek open, or put the knife to my throat. In fact, he seems pretty alright with it in general. But if he wasn't, how the hell would I know? It's not like I can read him at _all_.

"You're alright with me?" I ask, staring at him, and his shoulders lift in a very tiny shrug.

He glances up at me, and I guess I should really be paying more attention to his hands, to what he's doing, but if I want to catch even the slightest tell it's going to be on his face, right? I can't watch his hands — I'm at a bad angle to do that anyway — and still watch him to see what he's thinking.

"We'll see," he answers noncommittally. "You haven't done anything to make an enemy of me yet, and you seem to mean what you say. If Jason continues liking you, it's not my place to tell him what to do." He straightens up just a bit, and the smirk that flickers across his face almost feels dangerous, but mostly just like a silent version of laughing. "Have you thought this through though, Arsenal?"

"What do you mean?" I ask, and the smirk flickers through again. That blank face he's got between looks is really pretty creepy. I don't know how the hell Jason manages reading it when I can barely even watch Black Talon fake emotions and looks without being kind of unnerved.

"You love Jason, yes?" he asks, and I nod in confirmation.

"Yeah, I _do_."

"Have you considered that even if he accepts you, if he decides he does care for you in return, that you are not just dealing with Jason himself?" I'm pretty sure I make a face, I must, because he barely waits a moment before continuing. "Apparently not."

"What are you talking about?"

'Not just Jason'? What the hell does that mean? Who else is there to deal with? Nightingale, I guess, but that's not really something that I'd even considered worrying about yet. As long as I share — and I am _so_ capable of sharing, that's fine — why would Nightingale care? I'm pretty sure it's Jason being taken from him that Nightingale is opposed to, not just me existing around Jason now that the information's out there that I care for him. At least, I hope not.

I can probably ease around a territorial Nightingale, but if he demands that I straight out stop being around Jason, at all? I don't know if I can do that; not even for the sake of my own health. That's a lot to ask, and it's a lot for me to give up. I can be Jason's friend, or his lover, or _his_ , or just the guy he fucks sometimes, but not seeing him at all? I think that would hurt too much.

I might do it if it was what _Jason_ wanted, but if it's just Nightingale telling me to stay away because he doesn't want to lose his hold…? I don't think I'm that concerned with my own health, over how much it would hurt to get cut off from Jason. Besides, it's _Jason's_ choice, not Nightingale's. He doesn't get to tell me I can't love Jason, or split us apart just because he doesn't like the idea that there could be something more between the two of us. That's all up to _Jason_.

"Jason is an _Owl_ ," Black Talon points out, and I know that _should_ mean something to me — well, it means a _lot_ of things but nothing I can think of that immediately relates to the conversation — but it just doesn't. I don't understand, and apparently that's a really easy thing for any Owl to read, _ever_ , because Black Talon shakes his head a little bit and makes a faintly disappointed noise. "If you want Jason to be yours, and _far_ more importantly that you want to be _Jason's_ —"

"I do," I break in, and he barely even glances at me but the _look_ is enough to snap my mouth closed again. Right, don't interrupt Owls. I should know better, shouldn't I? Jason doesn't like it either.

"Then you're _also_ signing up to be one of us, Arsenal. So far _no one_ has been accepted into our family but us four Talons, ex or current." His smile is sharp, predatory like he can sense that my mind is taking a nosedive into ' _oh fuck_ ', and unlike his previous ones this one stays on his mouth as he speaks. "We're _very_ selective about who gets to be part of our family; think you're up to proving yourself to each of us individually, _Roy?_ "

Okay, wait, let's take a step back from outright panic and actually think about this. I _have_ to think about this because otherwise I'm going to panic, hyperventilate, and pass the hell out. Not a great 'I want to date your older brother figure' impression to make on Black Talon. I've been doing half decently with him so far, haven't I?

Alright, first, it's not just Jason who knows my name. Okay, unpleasant but not unexpected. Knowing too much is kind of an Owl trademark, isn't it? It doesn't surprise me that — at the least and if I choose to be naive and optimistic — two of the five Owls know who I am outside of my mask, even though I definitely didn't tell any of them.

Second; _proving_ myself to them? That's not such a different thought than the normal 'be good enough to date my son/daughter' thing, right? The only difference is that there's four of them instead of just a parent or two. Oh, and that they're all trained killers that could either make my life living _hell_ or flat out murder me — without leaving a _single_ trace — if they decide that I _don't_ measure up to whatever standards they have. And it gets _worse_. What the hell kind of standards do _Owls_ have about who one of their family gets to date? What kind of hell am I in for if I officially try and become one of them?

Well, wait, what about Kon-El? Kon's dating Black Talon, isn't he? At the least they're fucking like rabbits, and everybody knows it. But he _just_ said that no one had ever gotten accepted into their family. Has Kon not gone official, did he fail — no, I'm pretty sure he'd be _dead_ if he'd failed — or are they just skating under the radar? Is it some kind of thing where Kon _can't_ be an Owl, because he's Ultraman's clone and the whole Ultraman/Owlman rivalry is a well established thing that _cannot_ be gone against?

"What about Kon?" I blurt out, and then take in a sharp breath when I really _realize_ what I said. I need to work on that whole thinking about what I say thing.

"You're getting the terms mixed up," Black Talon comments, glancing over his shoulder at the helm and front of the jet for a second. " _You_ want Jason to be _yours_ ; Kon is perfectly content simply being _mine_. If that changes, he will face the same scrutiny you will be going through. Worse, in fact."

"Why worse?"

"He's a Kryptonian," Black Talon answers, with a tiny smirk, "and Ultraman's, officially. If he ever wants to join our family the way you intend to, Kon will have to prove that his loyalty to me is completely without question, and that he would never betray us to his 'father'. You're far less high risk, and obviously you don't have the same rivalry with us." He raises one hand and flicks it at me in some kind of gesture I don't understand, but luckily follows it up with, "Come here."

I round the table, and he shifts to one side to give me access to Jason's back. "What can I do?" I ask, swallowing down nerves. The bleeding at least looks slower, or maybe it just doesn't look as bad now that it's been rinsed clean.

"We're only a few minutes from friends, and they're ready for him. It's safest to leave anything else to professionals." He pulls away, straightening up from the table. "Their identities have to be protected, and you can't know the location of them or the Roost either. You understand that, of course." I nod, and I think he's considering me, but after a few intense — to me, anyway — seconds he echoes my nod. "I'm going to sedate you."

He turns and sweeps towards the still open storage area as I blink, staring. "Wait, _sedate_ me? But Jason—"

"Is in the best hands he can be. There's nothing you can do but sit and wait, and you'd have to do so alone in the jet, blindfolded and restrained for the sake of security. That's more effort than I have spare attention right now, since Jason may be dying." He stands back up, a syringe in one hand, and I swallow. "So I can sedate you, or I can knock you out through more violent means. This is my preference, what's yours?"

Oh and he's not even _remotely_ kidding. I guess I understand, I suppose it's alright. I don't _like_ being put out, and not having any kind of clue about what's happening with Jason while whoever it is tries to keep him from dying but…

"Not much of a choice, is there?" I say with a grin, and he gives that same small, silently laughing smirk.

"Not particularly. Ready?"

I nod, and then jerk a little bit when he starts for me. "Wait, no, not ready. Give me a second." I loop around the table, back to Jason's head, and hesitate a second before sinking down to my knees. I reach up, finding the fold of his left arm and taking his hand, squeezing gently. He stays out, but I don't expect anything else. "Hey Jason," I say softly, studying the part of his lips and the smoothed out ease of his forehead, his closed eyes. "Hold on, alright? I don't care if it's for me, or Nightingale, or just to spite the world, but hold on." I swallow again, and look up at Black Talon. "You'll wake me up when it's done, when we're there?" He nods, and I squeeze Jason's hand again. "I'll be there when you wake up, Jaybird. Promise."

I let go, reluctantly, and get back to my feet. "Done?" Black Talon asks, and I look over at him.

"Yeah," I force a grin and shake out my left arm, offering it towards the needle in the younger Owl's hand. "So let's do this, hm?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there's that. This is chapter one, and there are _three_. The third one is already done, because I got sick with the flu and to make my 1k-a-day a goal I just wrote whatever was in my head, regardless of where it fell in the continuity of the story. Luckily, I know exactly what happens in the second chapter, so that shouldn't be long. So next chapter will feature much more Nightingale, and oh he is _mean_. He does not appreciate this incursion on his territory.
> 
> In the current continuity of what's posted, this happens after 'Waiting for the Hoofbeats', but before 'Home For Christmas' and 'Holiday Spirit' (hey, imagine when all of my references won't just be Christmas themed ones!). There's another two chapters, as stated, and then I've got a bit immediately following it that's from Dick's PoV. That's right, from the PoV of the only Owl I haven't written yet! I'm excited. I'm _really_ excited. Should be lots of fun!
> 
> See you next weekend!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! So this chapter got really long, but I swear it is more or less all important. Well, for character development anyway. _I swear, just read it_. XD Also I am convinced that Roy is adorable and painfully sweet, and pretty much the most accepting person ever and Jason is really lucky to have him. Like, wow. For the entirety of this chapter and the next one, Roy simply would not be written any other way. This character as he wrote himself has managed to totally swap my pairings and I don't know how.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

" _Holy_ fuck."

Going from dead unconscious to wide awake in the span of about a second and a half is not an experience I recommend. To anybody, ever, at all.

I resist the urge to spaz any more than I already did, with my gasp-of-the-dying and the jerk of my whole body remembering that no it's actually _not_ dying thank you very much. The pound of my heart and pulse as every instinct I have tries to figure out what the threat is and where and _kill it right now_ is just about the most freaked out I have ever felt, and everything is running at a hundred miles an hour and there's _blood on my arms_ and I don't remember where it's from and _fuck_.

"Breathe, Arsenal."

I snap my gaze up, to a pair of round, white-lensed goggles over a black half-mask, medium length black hair falling over it. To pale skin and a small, flat mouth, the smooth line of a neck mostly covered in a black suit and an equally black cape that falls around his shoulders and hides almost everything else about him in shadow. Everything but the arm extending from those shadows with an empty syringe in the gloved hand, the hooked claws — no, _talons_ — at the end of the fingertips tapping against the plastic.

"What the hell did you give me?" I ask, clenching my hands and arching a bit, my heels pressing against the floor, my back against the chair I'm in. Everything is loud, and alive, and I am _so awake holy crap_.

"Adrenaline," he answers easily, tucking the syringe away. "The effects will calm down, just breathe as steadily as you can." He offers me his hand, and after a second staring it I reach forward and take it. Black Talon is half my size, maybe three quarters, but he pulls me up off the chair with just his arm, without even bracing.

I steady myself as best I can, swallowing and raising a hand to rub across my forehead and my eyes. Or, a glove across my mask. Doesn't really work the way I want it to. I brace my hands on my hips instead, taking a look around to distract myself from the chemically induced shaking of my hands and shoulders.

"This—" I spin on my heels in a circle, staring up at the ridiculously high ceilings of the _cave_. "This is the Roost."

It's metal under our feet, and there are at least three levels of the platforms bridged by stairs, the flooring alternating between mesh grid and solid metal. The walls are rock, mostly, bridged in with what looks like more metal paneling, and there's a _giant fucking dinosaur_. What the _hell?_ It's halfway suspended over a section that doesn't have platform, which falls down to what looks like water at the bottom. There's also a giant coin, and a huge card with the Jokester's face, and a section of glass cases that have some kind of costumes in them that are pretty black, red, and blue themed but I can't tell the specifics from here; they're across a few platforms and a lot of empty space from me.

Holy _shit_ I'm in the Roost.

"Yes, it is," Black Talon answers, with a hint of sarcasm. "With me, Arsenal. Jason is this way."

 _There's_ probably the only name that could stop me from just staring in awe for a while.

"Is he alright?" I demand, following the sweep of Black Talon's cape across the metal, to a section of the cave mostly hidden behind a metal wall. It's… It's a medical center, with a section that's definitely for emergencies on the right, with metal tables and a frankly scary array of machines and instruments. To the left is what looks like more long term care, with lower, narrower, and more normal beds with their own machines. Those are more basic ones that I recognize from hospital rooms.

Jason is in one, blanket pulled up to his waist, hooked up to everything next to his bed. He's bare chested, but there are enough bandages wrapped around him that he might as well not be. It's pretty much just his left arm and his neck that aren't covered, and his left is the one hooked up to all the machines, and an IV. Black Talon leads me over to the bed, flicking his hand towards an empty chair pulled up beside it.

"You're welcome to stay here, but don't go wandering. If you get found anywhere but inside this section of the Roost you'll be removed and not welcomed back. Clear?"

"Yeah," I answer, sliding past Black Talon to take the seat, "thanks." Jason is _very_ still, and _very_ pale, and it's kinda scary as all hell. I am so not used to seeing him as anything but the badass that he is. Even when he's sleeping, even when he's naked and we're in the middle of sex, there's always something _powerful_ and dangerous about him. But right now… Right now he looks vulnerable. "What did the surgeons say?" I ask, looking up at Black Talon as the younger man checks machines and readouts.

He glances briefly at me, standing in front of what has to be the heart monitor. The beat on it is steady, but feels slow to me. "Jason lost a lot of blood," he starts, leaning down to brush black hair away from Jason's eyes, "and it was a lot of work to remove the shrapnel, but he should be alright with some rest and care. Nothing vital was damaged, and the bones will heal with enough time. It could have been a lot worse." He's _unbelievably_ careful with the talons at the end of his gloves; his touch doesn't even leave a mark.

"Did they know when he'd wake up?"

Black Talon shakes his head and straightens back up. "No estimate. He's pretty heavily drugged for now, so it could be a while, or it could be minutes. That's up to him. Here," he reaches beneath his cape, retrieving a knife that I recognize almost instantly as Jason's. No one else's weapon has that particular curved pattern. T holds it out to me, offering me the hilt, and after a second of hesitation I take it from him. "You were the one who retrieved it from the battlefield, you should be the one to give it back to him."

I wrap my fingers around it — minding the sharp edges — and then look back up at Black Talon. "Thanks," I say softly, carefully laying the blade across my knees. I know Jason's got a sheath for it, but I don't know where that is and it won't fit in the sheath I have for my knife which, speaking of — I glance down, briefly — seems to be missing. In fact, so is my gun, and now that I'm a little less ridiculously awake and a little more calm, it feels _really_ obvious that I'm also missing the weight of my bow that's normally across my back, as well as both of my quivers.

"Hey, uh, where are my weapons?" I ask, kinda lamely, as I look back up at Black Talon.

He gives a sharp smile, and then tilts his head a bit to one side. I think he arches an eyebrow, but I can't quite tell under the goggles and the mask. "You'll get them back when you leave; no need to worry." I watch him step back and around me, and I nearly flinch when his glove touches the back of my neck on the way past. "I'll get you some water."

"Thanks," I call after him, and I get the flick of one shoulder in what I think might be acknowledgement as he disappears around the edge of the wall. Alone — apart from the _way_ too still form of Jason — the steady beeping of the heart monitor is loud and sharp, and it feels like the pauses between the noises are too long, too uneven. Like he's falling apart in front of me, even though I can look up and see the line cutting across the machine is as steady as ever.

I swallow and drag the chair a bit closer, pressing my knees up against the side of the bed, and reach down, about to take Jason's left hand before the blood on my arms and gauntlets catches my eye. I quickly pull my hand back, unbuckling my gloves and tugging them off my hands. At least the material's good enough that the blood didn't soak through, and my hands are clean underneath them. There's a kind of obvious transition halfway up my arms where the stains start — and hey, blood from trying to _help_ someone, who would have guessed? — but there's not much I can do about that right now. I set the gloves to the side, down on the floor next to my chair.

This time, when I reach forward, I take Jason's hand like I planned to, interlacing our fingers and pulling it up. I lean partway down, tilting my head to press my lips to his palm. I like to _think_ that the heart monitor sounds different for a beat, but that's totally my own imagination.

"Hey Jaybird," I whisper, cradling his hand between mine and pressing another kiss to it, at his knuckles this time. "You're still breathing, so that's good. Even if it wasn't for me, thanks for holding on like I asked." Of course Jason doesn't answer or react, but that's fine. I'm not going to wish that he'd wake up, or force him to, before he's ready. The most important thing is Jason; I won't jeopardize his recovery just because I want him awake sooner. I'm not that selfish.

He means more than that.

"Apparently you're going to be alright," I say against his knuckles, watching the faint rise and fall of his chest. "It's just going to take some rest and time." His right arm is in a cast, from his wrist to halfway up his bicep, and it's not an absurd, heavy one but it's still obvious and unyielding. At least the break apparently wasn't that bad. "I know, you'll hate it. None of you Owls can stand enforced stillness, I remember that. You've never been good at being confined or limited either, you'll be bored out of your mind stuck in a bed." I take a glance around the medical area, more just to move my eyes and not to actually look for anything, or anyone. "I guess the rest of the Owls will keep you here, or somewhere as safe, but if they let me I'll spend as much time as I can with you. To keep you company."

I stroke one hand down his arm, to the crook of his elbow and then up the curve of muscle to the edge of the white bandages. I trace along the line of where they hook under his armpit, securing a bulkier pad against the back of his shoulder, and then follow them up to the opposite edge where they give way back to the bare skin of his neck. I can feel his pulse under my fingertips, and I bow my head against his hand and concentrate on it, on the faint thud under my fingers that's proof that Jason's still alive.

The faint clink of glass against metal makes me jump, looking up, and I nearly have a mini heart attack at the shadow of Black Talon standing next to me, straightening back up from setting a glass of water by the leg of my chair. He gives a smile that flickers across his lips without actually changing any other bit of his face, and I self consciously pull my hand back from Jason's neck, even though I don't let go of his hand.

"Do any of you make any kind of noise?" I ask and Black Talon turns, sitting down on the bed beside Jason's legs.

"Not unless we want to," he answers, resting one hand on Jason's hip while he keeps my gaze. "We play on the highest level of the Crime Syndicate, and the _only_ way we maintain that is by being as good as we are. Stealth is a necessity in our skill set; it makes us feel like more than the humans we are. Stealth, and knowing too much. Those are the two things that keep us safe."

"Stealth I get, it's the surprise. But how does knowing all this information actually help in anything but theoreticals? You can't possibly think that fast in combat."

Black Talon gives a slow smile, tilting his head a bit as he watches me. "We can, and we do. But that's not what 'knowing too much' means." He looks back at Jason, and then he _might_ look back at me but I honestly can't tell because his head is still aimed mostly at Jason, and underneath those goggles his eyes could be pointed absolutely anywhere. "Do you think Owlman could beat Johnny Quick if it came to a fight?"

"Yes," I answer, instantly, and then blink a bit. "I mean, probably. I guess it would depend on if he knew it was going to happen."

He makes a small amused noise, and obviously turns his gaze back to me. " _That's_ what it means. Maybe we know someone is thinking of betraying or attacking us, maybe we don't, but if everyone believes that we already know what they're planning then they don't think they can get away with it. So long as everyone _thinks_ we know everything, they'll behave like we do. Some of us are geniuses, and we're all trained to far above average, but we are still human underneath it all."

"Why are you telling me any of this?" I ask, watching him over Jason's hand, watching that smile he's still holding. "Isn't that against Owl code or something; telling anyone secrets?"

"Because if you remember it, you might stand a chance." That sounds, ominous. I swallow, and Black Talon tilts his head and gives a slightly sharper smile. "Nightingale isn't going to let you get away without a conversation, and his conversations tend to be fairly bloody when he's not pleased with the people he's talking to."

"Oh _hell_ ," I whisper, bowing my head. "I forgot about that. What are the chances I get out of that alive, realistically?"

He stands, reaching forward and touching my arm gently. "Just remember, stealth and knowing too much. He'll ambush you to make sure you're off guard and open to whatever he asks, if you give him the chance. Tempting as it may be _don't_ act like he already knows everything he's asking or talking about. He _only_ concretely knows what you've told him, the rest is guesswork and he won't mind you confirming it. Be honest, and try not to engage him violently any more than you have to. He'll press you for a fight, but if you give him one it will only give him a reason to hurt you more than he's already going to."

"This sounds really fun," I comment sarcastically, raising my head and looking over at Black Talon, "and I do appreciate the tips, but why help me at all?"

He flashes a sharp smile and pulls his hand away. "Try not to die, hm? You seem to make Jason happy, and he's far easier to manipulate when he's happy. I appreciate the advantage. Now I have work to do, and other places to be. Nightingale, Owlman, and Talon are on their way back, good luck."

He's sweeping away and out of sight before I can come up with anything to say, and I end up just shaking my head and letting loose a short laugh into the air. "An _advantage_ , really?" I squeeze Jason's hand and slowly lower it on top of the bed, interlacing our fingers. "I so don't understand you Owls," I tell him softly, "but I guess mystery is kinda the appeal, right?" I lean a bit back in my chair, and then change my mind and lean down to pick up the water glass at my feet with my free hand. It's cool when I swallow a mouthful, below room temperature like it's been refrigerated somewhere, and the condensation on the outside of the glass is damp against my fingertips. I set it back down.

Hopefully it's not drugged, and it's a special kind of thing that I'm even thinking about that. Only with the Owls, and in the Roost.

I lower my free hand to rest against my thigh, and close my eyes for a second. "This is all wrong, you know?" His hand is calloused under mine, and I give it another squeeze just to feel his skin. "If one of us was going to get hurt it should have been me. I was closer to where that monster landed, before I made you switch opponents with me, and we both know that I'm the less valuable one of the two of us. You're the big badass, not me." I crack a small grin, and let my gaze rest on Jason's closed eyes. "Besides, you've got more people to care if you die. All the Owls, and me; that outweighs my count by a few people. So, you'll have to wake up soon, Jaybird. Alright? I'd appreciate if you did that before Nightingale kills me too, that'd be great."

Oh man, that's gonna _suck_. I've _seen_ what Nightingale can do to people he doesn't like — or just the ones that catch his attention for a few hours — and I really don't want to be on the receiving end of that. That first time he warned me not to hurt Jason, by beating the crap out of me, was more than enough of a taste. I haven't got the choice of _not_ having it happen, obviously, and I've got a feeling this is going to hurt a lot more than that first time did. That was just a warning, no audience participation required. This time it's a talk.

Let's give that word some emphasis and air quotes. ' _Talk_.'

Yeah, maybe if your definition of ' _talk_ ' is stabbing someone with a knife. I think any sane person would probably define what he's going to do to me as an interrogation, or maybe just torture. The anticipation is really starting to get to me, and I don't usually scare easily. Hard to still have a trait like that, since I work with the kind of scary badasses that I do. Still, even by our standards, Nightingale is worth being afraid of, and he's pissed at _me_. I think I'm justified being kinda scared.

Of course, Owls can practically _smell_ fear.

Hey! Maybe if he knows I'm afraid that'll make Nightingale a little more satisfied right off the bat, and he won't be quite as nasty. Or, maybe he'll be even nastier. Really kinda hard to say with any Owl, but him especially. I kinda wish I'd paid more attention to exactly what he was capable of when I had the chance; tried to get a hold on some of his patterns.

Also, Black Talon might have told me not to engage Nightingale in the fight he wants, but I'd still feel way more comfortable if he'd hadn't taken all my bigger weapons. Sure, I've got hidden knives, and various pieces of gear in the pouches on my belt, but there's something about the weight of a bow in my hands or across my back that always makes me feel a little safer. I guess I got Jason's knife in trade, but that's going straight into his hand the second he wakes up. I'm not crazy enough to believe that Nightingale would actually let me use it in a fight anyway.

I raise Jason's hand again, and lean back over to press my lips against his knuckles, then take a second to just close my eyes against his skin. I take in a deep breath and straighten up, but the rush of a jet engine echoing off the walls of the cave — way quieter than a normal jet, so obviously one of the Owl planes — makes me wince and cringe back down. Some part of me makes me automatically, and carefully, lower Jason's hand back to the bed and let it go as I turn the chair I'm in. The engines cut out, and I resettle in the chair so me and it are at least vaguely pointed more towards the entrance to this medical area. The Owls aren't going to make much, if any, noise, so I'll really just have to keep watch until I can see one of them.

I'm not down to get stabbed in the back before I even get a chance to try talking Nightingale down. I'd like to at least see the knife coming, even if I don't actually have a chance in hell of dodging it.

It's not like the little demon, Talon, is going to step between Nightingale and me, and Owlman sure as hell isn't going to do it either. Jason is firmly out, and Black Talon — my only maybe-ally — is who knows where. Not here; that's the important part. I haven't got anybody to count on in this place but myself, so I'd better give myself at least a little bit of a fighting chance.

Hah, a fighting chance against Nightingale in his home territory, and with no real weapons to my name. Good joke, Roy.

I set Jason's knife to the side, between my leg and the steel arm of the chair, so it's not on display or in my hands. That could be taken as an obvious threat, and I'd rather look like as little of a threat as possible in front of the Owls. Nightingale especially, but I don't want to antagonize any of them if I can help it. I've got a feeling I'm going to need all the good will I can get from the rest of them, to keep the oldest ex-Talon from killing me. I've got Jason, and maybe Black Talon. Two down, two to go. Right?

How do I even _start_ with impressing Talon, or _Owlman?_ Though really I'd settle for toleration; being impressed is a whole other level.

There's the echo of voices in the cave, louder than pretty much all of what I usually hear from the Owls. A younger one first, Talon, that's obviously angry but I can't quite decipher the words, and then a slightly softer one that's older and much less obviously angry. That one's Nightingale. Owlman is actually the one who appears around the corner of the wall first, but he completely ignores my existence. He strides forward — his cape sweeps around him _almost_ as well as Black Talon's; I blame the color difference, dark grey instead of black, for it looking slightly less impressive — and past me, to the machines at Jason's side. He doesn't even look at me, as far as I can tell, and I swallow and decide pretty quickly not to break the silence.

Ignoring me is a step above killing me, or throwing me out, so I'll take it as a positive. If it's not broken, don't fix it.

I look back over at the entrance at a flash of black in my peripheral vision, and find Talon stopped dead at the corner. His mouth is curled in a sneer, hands clenched into tight fists, and Nightingale is standing at his shoulder. The older Owl-family member doesn't look any more pleased with my presence than the younger one, but that shows more in the flat line of his lips and the slightly raised chin than in anything more obvious. Talon has a mixture of dirt and blood smeared across his left cheek, and his cape has a large rip over his right shoulder, jagged and looking a bit like it was torn with brute strength. Nightingale _looks_ fine, but he's got a few slices in the outer layer of his suit that show through to the armor underneath, and a cut over his lower left arm that looks like it actually made him bleed.

"What is _he_ doing here?" Talon spits, right hand slipping beneath the fall of the dark red cape — it's hood resting against his back — and emerging with a wickedly sharp knife that's already stained with someone's blood. He steps forward, threateningly, and I can't help tensing.

"Back down, Talon," Owlman says from behind me, a warning note to his voice, and Talon's sneer deepens a little bit. But, point for me, the little demon slips the knife back away to wherever it came from. So I'm not going to get gutted just yet, well that's a first step at least. "Arsenal."

Owlman's voice is flat, not the snap of command I know from Crime Syndicate meetings, but I still instantly turn in my chair and have to stop myself from snapping up to my feet like I just got called on to answer a teacher's question. It feels dangerous as all hell to be turning my back on Talon and Nightingale, but it would be _way_ more dangerous to not give Owlman my full attention when he wants it. I'll take the less suicidal of the two options. I've got a feeling that's what a lot of my interactions with the Owls are going to come down to. Which choice gets me killed _less?_

"Yes, sir?" I answer, and Owlman looks up from the machines, aiming his head and the white, round eyes of his mask at me. His mouth is the same thin line that Nightingale's is, but on him it feels less dangerous and more like a simple dismissal. I like that better.

"You may stay until Jason wakes up," my heart rises just a little bit, "and then you will leave without argument or resistance. Understood?"

"Absolutely," I rush to answer, "yes. Of course, sir."

He watches me for a second, where I try and remain as absolutely still as possible, before giving a small nod and straightening up. He sweeps back around me, and I force myself to turn slowly instead of whipping around the second he's at my back and I can't see him anymore. Nightingale and Talon are still at the curve of the corner, and as Owlman moves past them he pauses and touches the shoulder of his eldest ex-Talon, leaning down to speak in his ear. Nightingale flashes a bright, dangerous smile at his mentor in response but doesn't say anything, only tilts his head a bit downwards in what I have to assume is acknowledgement. Owlman accepts whatever it is, and slips around the corner.

Talon starts forward almost immediately, his mouth twisting and teeth baring into a sneer. "Away from him, _archer_."

Alright, with Nightingale I might have stood — or in this case sat — my ground, but Talon seems a little more obviously aggressive, and a little more likely to flat out kill me regardless of what Jason might want. Wouldn't that just put the icing on this whole thing? Getting killed by the smallest Talon before I even get around to facing off with the oldest one would be just a _little_ humiliating.

I raise my hands in surrender for a second, then lean down to grab my gloves from the ground and slowly retrieve Jason's knife from between my leg and the chair with the other hand. I get to my feet with both things and back away as Talon stalks closer, briefly looking up at Nightingale, who hasn't moved from his spot at the entrance. He's watching me, and that smile he flashed is long gone. Is that better or worse?

Talon pushes the chair away from the bed with one foot and a screech of metal that makes me wince, and comes to a stop standing over Jason. I can only see the back of his head from here, and the fall of the blood red cape, and I turn to find the closest of the metal tables on the more 'emergency' side of the medical area. It's only a few steps, and I take them to set my gloves and Jason's knife on the metal surface, bracing my hands and leaning over it for just a second. I actually hear the faint pad of footsteps and look up in time to flinch back from Nightingale suddenly being right next to me.

I straighten up, facing him, and swallow thickly before I can think about it. "Nightingale." I'm kind of proud my voice is steady.

"Arsenal," he answers, with a slow smile that feels like a threat and probably is one. "We have a conversation to finish. Come with me." He turns and takes half a step away before I find my voice, and another before I manage to actually speak.

"No."

He stills, and then slowly turns on his heel to face me again. " _Excuse_ me?"

I grip the edge of the metal table with my closer left hand to have something to ground myself, and to distract myself from the absolutely _murderous_ vibe coming off of Nightingale. Is it too late to just do what he wants? No, can't. Black Talon might not have mentioned it, but I know that the Owls don't respect people who don't stand up to them at least a little. If I just fold over at the first hint of threat that'll be that; I'll lose any chance of actually convincing Nightingale to let me stick around. I have to do this. Definitely helps to think of it as a 'must' rather than a 'probably should'.

"I promised Jason I'd be here when he woke up," I explain, as Nightingale takes one slow step towards me and I fight the urge to match it with one backwards. "I'm not chancing missing it; I'm staying here." He's face to face with me now, less room between us than I'd like, and I tighten my grip on the table a little bit. The metal bites into the palm of my hand. "We can finish this after that, right?" Alright, I would have liked to end that a little more strongly, and a little less like a question, but I guess you can't win them all.

Nightingale's mouth is back in that same thin line, and then my head is cracking into the side of the table and I'm really not sure what happened in between. I go down, knees buckling underneath me as my head swims. Nightingale steps around me, and I force my gaze up in time to watch his hand snap forward and curl around my throat, slamming me back against the edge of the table again. It digs into the back of my neck, and I choke in a breath through his hand and reach up to grab his wrist. He lets me, but my yank doesn't move or even loosen the press of his fingers around my throat.

"I don't think you understood me," he says with a small smile, hand contracting until I can't _breathe_. "That wasn't a _request_ , Arsenal. I'm going to give you enough air to speak, and you're going to tell me 'yes', and follow me out of here when I leave. Is that _clear?_ "

His fingers loosen, letting me drag a rough breath in past the still-too-tight grip, and every instinctive part of me that knows how to survive screams that I should do _exactly_ what Nightingale wants me to. I should obediently parrot his lines, pull myself to my feet, and quietly follow him out of here so he can do whatever it is he's going to before he lets me go. The rest of me is not as smart. It's also louder.

" _No_ ," I manage to force between my teeth. "I _promised_." The words aren't out of my mouth for more than half a second before his hand clenches down again, and he presses me harder against the table. My other hand raises without my permission, to try pulling Nightingale's fingers away from my throat, but even having both of my hands doesn't budge him.

"Not a _request_ ," he hisses at me, his smile slipping into a more obvious baring of teeth that could _rip_ me apart. "You'll get up and walk out with me, or I'll wrap one of my cords around your throat and _drag_ you out."

I manage to get the edges of my fingers underneath his hand, prying it just a little ways off my neck. "Then _drag_ me," I gasp up at him. "I'm not leaving till Jason's _awake_."

The sharp drag of gloved fingers across my temple startles me, makes me lose the tenuous grip on Nightingale's hand, and his fingers go back to too tight to breathe as his other hand rips the mask off my face. I suck in as much of a breath as I can get past his hand, my eyes widening.

Even more than the fingers around my throat, Nightingale stripping my mask off my face feels like he _has_ me. Like I'm really at his mercy, and oh that's a _scary_ thought. Owls don't have mercy, they don't just _forgive_ , and I'm pretty sure Nightingale is going to tear me apart for daring to say 'no' to him. For daring to even _look_ at something that's his, and having the audacity to actually behave like I've got a choice in any of this. Nightingale _let_ me come along with Jason, and now I'm actually trying to tell him that I won't talk with him until the man we're both here for, _his_ man, is awake. Am I suicidal or do I really just lack that much of a survival sense? He's going to _kill_ me, and no one is going to stop him.

My mask hits the ground, and a small knife from I don't even _know_ where presses tight against my left cheek, the point dangerously close to my eye.

"Say that again," he dares, voice low and pushed between two rows of white teeth that part like he wants to sink them into my jugular. Oh _Christ_ what did I get myself into?

But I made a _promise_ to Jason. An unconscious Jason, sure, but I made that promise in front of him, and Black Talon, and even if Jason never knows, _I'll_ know. I won't break it, and I won't let Nightingale terrorize me into breaking it. I'll hold to my word, and if that means Nightingale hurts me, or physically drags me out of here, or even takes my _eye_ , I… I _promised_.

"I'm _not leaving_ ," I force out. It's weaker than I'd like because it's all the air I have, and the lack of oxygen is starting to get to me, but I manage to at least gasp it. The consequence is the tightening of Nightingale's hand, and a sharp sting of pain across my cheek. I cringe back, expecting the blade to go for my eye next, bracing for pain that there's _no way_ I'm going to be able to handle.

He lets me go.

I cough and gasp in air, collapsing to one side now that I'm not pinned and barely catching myself on my arms as I fall. It's not the first time I've been choked, and the aching pain and rough hitches of my attempts at breathing again are familiar, but that doesn't make it any easier to actually catch my breath. There are some kinds of attacks you just don't get used to, and asphyxiation is definitely one of them. You can try and teach yourself how to get out of it, or how to hold your breath, but the actual feeling of not being able to breath is an awful, panicky feeling that will never get any easier.

Some kind of instinct forces me to look up and find Nightingale, adrenaline singing through my veins and insisting that this is a combat situation and I can't lose track of my enemy. He's standing above me, deliberately tucking the blade he held to my face away inside some kind of hidden pocket on his wrist. He's got that thin line of a mouth again, and I tense a little because the last time he looked at me like that he slammed my head into the metal table. Which, _ow_ , by the way. That's going to be a hell of a headache later.

His mouth curls in what I'm pretty sure is the nastiest smile I've ever seen on him, and I really wish I could see his eyes because I don't know what that kind of a smile means. Is it a 'stay out of my way' smile, or an 'I'm going to _hurt_ you' smile, or is it something else I'm totally missing? There's gotta be some kind of clue in his eyes, right? He might be your standard unreadable Owl some of the time, but most of the time Nightingale is pretty much the most expressive one of them. That can't just be his mouth.

"Alright, _Roy_ ," he says through that smile, arms lowering as he finishes tucking the blade away. "You can stay here." Funny how that _sounds_ like a victory, but then just really _doesn't_. Nightingale crouches down in front of me, one hand bracing feather-light against the ground between his legs for a moment before he reaches forward. I try not to flinch away when that hand touches my jaw, and then sweeps up to touch the sting of whatever cut he just put in my cheek. "This is a _favor,_ " he murmurs, "and I'm going to take it out of your _skin_ later, understand?" I swallow — because holy _fuck_ I'm so doomed — and his answering smile is _sharp_. "Good. Now stay down, _Harper_."

He straightens back up, and I don't trust myself not to say something dumb or not to just surrender, so I keep my mouth shut instead. Nightingale turns away, heading towards Jason's bed, and I swallow and let my head hang for just a second. Stay down? I can do that. That's not so hard when I'm still trying to catch my breath anyway. Also, I like not getting gutted.

I do watch Nightingale as he steps in next to where Talon is, both their backs to me. They're talking to each other, but it's so quiet that I can't hear them even though I'm barely fifteen feet away, and whatever it is neither of them look that pleased. Nightingale leans down over Jason after a minute or so — after I've shifted to not be laid out on the floor, bracing my back against one of the legs of the metal table and sitting, not standing — brushing gentle lips over his forehead, and then pulls back and heads out of the medical area without even a glance back at me.

I won't even try and deny that when he vanishes around the corner I instantly relax somewhat. Alright, so he could totally ambush and murder the hell out of me, but not having the threat right there and staring at me is a little bit easier. At least this way I don't have to think about the totally inevitable knife in my back until it actually happens, I can just think and worry about Jason.

Talon, still standing near Jason's shoulder, looks back at me over his shoulder. "That was moronically foolish," he comments, as I slowly get to my feet, "if courageous."

I give a small grin on automatic, even though I'm pretty sure it shakes a little bit. "Not much to do with courage," I admit, leaning back against the table for a second.

He sneers in response, and what the hell is it about Owls that I'm actually kinda intimidated by a kid who can't be older than maybe, twelve? He's like, half my size, and I'd bet he's skinny underneath that armor and cape, and there's no _way_ he should be able to kick my ass. But he totally can, I'd bet on that too. Alright, so maybe it's not so weird to be afraid of a kid that could kill me if he wanted to, and, actually, _might_ want to. The Owls just don't make any sense in the world as I understand it. How can they all be _exceptions_ , all the _time?_

"Just moronic then," he growls, in what's actually a pretty decent impression of Owlman. "You are a fool if you believe Nightingale will not do what he threatened."

A laugh yanks its way out of my chest, and I shake my head and reach back to take Jason's knife off the table behind me. "Yeah, no, I believe him." The metal is cold under my hand, as I run my fingers up the flat of the blade, and the leather-bound hilt is only a little better. I pick it up and bring it into both my hands, and Talon watches me but doesn't seem concerned. I glance down at where my mask is lying on the floor, and then give myself a mental shake and slowly breathe out. No point, and I'm not putting that thing back on just to get it yanked off my face again.

"So you are simply suicidal then?" Talon snipes, and I look back up at him. It's totally impossible to read him past that sneer — if that doesn't just mean that he despises me, and he might — and I wouldn't be able to anyway. _Owls_ , man. Even Jason sometimes shuts down so completely that I can't get anything off of him but what he wants me to know.

"I made a _promise_ ," I repeat, lowering my gaze to the knife in my hands.

"To an unconscious man who couldn't hear you," the little demon points out instantly. "Nightingale is already displeased with you; you would have been better off not antagonizing him any further." He gives the tiniest jerk of his head that I think is something like a shake, and turns in a swirl of cape to stride towards the exit. "Do what you will, archer. Your health could not matter _less_ to me."

I wince, following the trail of the dark red cape until it slips around the corner and I'm alone with Jason again. I cautiously move forward — half expecting one of the Owls to appear at any step and put that knife in my back — to the side of Jason's bed, and glance over at the chair for a second before just sinking down to my knees instead. I set the knife down next to me, leaning into the side of the bed and resting my head next to his shoulder. Interlacing our fingers feels natural, and I press a kiss to the bare skin of his arm and gently squeeze his hand.

The tubes hooked into the crook of Jason's elbow are laid carefully across the bed, and I shift to make sure I'm not disturbing any of them.

I don't know how long I sit there, watching the rise and fall of his chest as my mind spins in circles, and I try not to think about my impending doom. I let my mind focus on Jason instead, filling the silence and the awful stillness with my own memories of him. Anything to keep from worrying about how pale he is, how badly _hurt_.

Instead I close my eyes, feeling the warmth of his hand in mine, and remember everything that I love about him. The startled widening of his eyes when I tell him he's important, and the way he touches me when I do. The thud of his heart under my ear in the unguarded moments where he's half or completely asleep, one arm around my shoulders and his breath warm against my forehead. Every time that he's smiled, slow and unexpected so I know it's real, and the _warmth_ in his eyes when it's from something I've said or done. Each time he's pressed up against my back in the middle of a fight, shoulders broad and completely in control of every shift of muscle and twitch of his hands. The moments where I can see the pain in his shoulders, the wariness in his eyes, but he lets me touch him anyway, lets me give him what I am to try and make it better.

Jason's hand shifts in mine, his shoulder twitching under the press of my forehead, and I snap my eyes open and push up to look at him. His brow is furrowing, throat working in a swallow, and I feel his hand clench down on mine. Weakly, but there. I watch and wait, and slowly his eyes drag open. His breathing is a little deeper than it was when he was unconscious, but it's not as even either. He blinks, gaze slipping to either side before finding me. His eyes narrow just a little bit, in what's easy to read as confusion.

"Roy?" he asks, voice dragging through his throat, and I give him a shaky smile.

"Hey, Jaybird," I answer softly, squeezing his hand for a moment. His eyes move to track down his own arm to where mine is, and then back up to meet my eyes.

"Roost?" He sounds weak, and that kinda hurts, but there's nothing I can do about that so I just nod. "What happened?"

My jaw clenches for a second, and I lower my head a little to press another kiss to the outside of his shoulder. His mouth curves a tiny bit at one corner, in what's almost a smile. "Doomsday," I answer, "but you're gonna be alright, okay Jaybird? You're gonna be alright." I swallow as he gives a small nod, eyes closing for a second. "Your jacket was pretty much ruined," I tell him, "but I made sure to grab your knife. Do you want it?"

"Under, pillow," he says haltingly, watching me, and there's a decent haze to his eyes. I don't know how much of that is exhaustion, or pain, or just the drugs he's full of. Whatever way, I follow his instruction. I reach down with my free hand and take his knife by the hilt, pushing up on my knees a bit to ease it underneath the pillow beneath his head. He makes a quiet noise that I'm pretty sure is a thanks.

"Anything for you," I say in answer to the barely verbal communication, and squeeze his hand again. This time, he squeezes back just a little bit. "Try not to move so much, alright? You were hurt pretty badly."

"Drugs," he breathes out, with a twitch of shoulder. "Can't feel it. What," he pauses to breathe, hand tightening on mine. Just barely, but enough for me to recognize it. "You; Roost?" he says instead, and luckily I understand the fraction of a sentence.

"Long story," I say with another small smile. "I'm here, Jason, that's the important part. I don't know for how long, but I'm here for now and I'll stay till you fall back asleep. Promise."

His mouth does another of those might-be-a-smile things, and his head shifts in what might be a nod. I'm not so great at recognizing things I'm not familiar with, and I've never seen Jason this badly hurt before. I've seen him tired, or in pain, but never this… low. There's a big difference between him grimacing and complaining because he's got a broken rib, or someone put a bullet in him, and seeing him get taken down like this. I've never seen anyone take Jason down before.

Not even when he was fighting with the Owls, before I ever knew him. When it happened, everyone knew he'd beaten Nightingale — I never actually found out how that fight went, I don't know if I'd actually bet on Jason in a fight between them — and then it spread like wildfire that the 'Red Hood' had taken down Black Talon too. Three times. But then when Owlman finally caught up to him for the last time, all anyone knew was that Jason had been beaten. No one talked about what happened, and by the time the Red Hood started showing back up it was a known thing that he had been the second Talon, and he was back with the Owls again.

No one got to see him for however long it took him to heal from his fight with Owlman. In fact, the Owls pretty much never let anyone see them heal. Either they're kicking ass or they're out of the public eye; the one time that Black Talon got taken down inside the sidekick base was a serious oddity. Even then, Owlman and Nightingale pretty much whisked him off as soon as they got there.

I didn't really know what to think of Jason at first. I just knew that he was Nightingale's, he was an Owl, and he was _really_ attractive.

Now I do know, and _damn_ Nightingale no one is going to make me give up Jason if he doesn't want me gone.

I tilt my head down into his shoulder, letting myself take some comfort in the warm press of his skin against mine. "I'll be here as long as you want me, Jason," I say softly, repeating myself but not even caring. It's worth repeating. Part of the repetition might be for my benefit too; saying it aloud more times makes me feel a bit better about how badly Nightingale is going to hurt me.

I just have to convince myself that it's worth enduring, and I know it _is_. For Jason.

"Thanks," he says, in a barely even audible breath of a voice, and I look back up at him. His eyes are closed again, and I rest my chin against his arm and just watch him. He doesn't look back at me, doesn't speak, and eventually his breathing evens back out into the slightly too shallow, but steady, pattern of him being unconscious.

Alright, time to face the music.

I carefully disconnect, letting go of Jason's hand and standing up. I lean over to press a gentle kiss to his forehead, past the strands of black hair, before swallowing and turning around. Retrieving my gloves from the metal table, and my mask from the floor next to it, feels a bit like suiting up for a war, and then a bit like meeting the executioner when I tuck my mask away instead of putting it back on like I do my gloves. It takes me a few moments to gather together the determination to actually turn back around and head for the exit of the medical area.

I reach the corner and step around it, looking around for a moment. I can't see any of the Owls from here, but I guess that really doesn't mean anything.

I get two more steps out before there's a faint woosh of air and movement that makes me half turn, just in time to get _yanked_ into the air. I swallow down the cry of shock more out of a second of sheer panic than any real thought process, hands jerking up to wrap around the arm curled in my uniform and currently supporting my weight as Nightingale carries me through thin air. Survival instinct keeps me from struggling as we circle through levels of the Roost and above what feels like cavernous pits that will _definitely_ kill me at this height. Do _not_ make the guy carrying you drop you if you can help it.

That doesn't stop the moment of absolute terror when he lets go, arm giving a pull and shake that expertly dislodges my grip before I can cling any harder to him. It _really_ doesn't help that since I turned he had me by the front of the shoulder, and I have _no_ idea where I'm falling since I'm definitely falling backwards. Fear freezes the yelp in my throat, and as I fall my gaze focuses in on the slight curve of Nightingale's smirk. He disconnects from the grapnel he's swinging on, but I have no idea what he does after that because my back hits a floor and drives all the breath out of me.

I gasp for air, not that it helps, and arch a little bit. The sharp ache isn't unfamiliar — I've gotten thrown into all kinds of things that have knocked the breath out of me — and the previous experience let's me take in small, shallow breaths to try and recover. Yeah, Black Talon said it would be an ambush, didn't he? At least he actually dropped me onto something, and not just into thin air to fall to my death. I guess this really is a talk, not just an execution. That's a step up.

Nightingale steps into view over me, and instinct makes me try and crawl backwards on my elbows until he steps forward onto my right shoulder and shoves me back down. Not going anywhere; got the message.

"So," he starts, heel digging into the meat of my shoulder in a way that's way more painful than I think it probably should be, "let's have that conversation, _Roy_."

I hold the hand I can move — my left — up in surrender, trying not to wince. "Okay, yeah. Anything you want to know, promise." My voice comes out a little more breathy than feels safe, but Nightingale has to know what more normal humans react like to not being able to breathe so well; it probably won't make him any nastier. Probably.

He gives a thin smile that's all teeth, and leans down a bit along the line of his leg. "How about starting with what makes you think you can take Jason from _me?_ " His heel presses in a little harder, this time I do wince.

" _Not_ taking him," I try and defend. "Swear to god, I'm not trying to take him, Nightingale."

I barely see the twist and flick of his hand, but I _feel_ the sharp sting of the blade as it slices past the armor at my left thigh and through at least a few layers of skin. I jerk in equal parts pain and surprise, which grinds his heel into the sensitive bits of my shoulder and draws a gasp out of my throat. He shoves off of my shoulder, moving low over me and retrieving the blade with a sweep of his hand as he passes. Since I'm not under his foot anymore, and he's starting to circle around me, I risk rolling over and pushing up with both arms. First to my knees, and then, when he doesn't lunge at me, all the way up to my feet.

My thigh stings a bit, but it's not so bad. Surface wound, definitely. Might bleed a decent amount, but it's not going to actually do more than hurt a little. That could have been so much worse; it's _going_ to be so much worse.

"Is that right?" Nightingale hisses, in a tone that sounds completely rhetorical but, remembering Black Talon's advice, I quickly answer anyway.

"Yes, absolutely. As far as I'm concerned he can be yours as long as you want. I'm _so_ not a threat to you." I turn as he stalks around me, keeping myself facing him but also keeping my arms out to the side, palms open. I'm not suicidal enough to let him at my back unless I have to, but I really don't want to look like I'm even thinking about fighting him. 'Cause I'm not. No way. I will _lose_ that fight.

"And how do you see yourself fitting into that?" he asks sharply, flipping that small knife across his knuckles and flinging — _oh, Christ_ — droplets of my blood across the… mats? Yeah, the floor is some kind of mat with very little give, and if I was crazy enough to look away from Nightingale maybe I could actually figure out where we are, or what's around us.

I hesitate a second, mostly at the glint of that knife. "Sharing?" I venture, and I know it's the wrong answer when he bares his teeth and his hand flicks out. I jerk to the side, making the knife miss slicing a matching cut into my other thigh by about a quarter of an inch, and Nightingale leaps forward.

I'd like to say that I put up some kind of a fight, but in reality apart from one of my arms getting knocked to the side as I try and bring it forward, there's no defense to the knee that drives upwards at my stomach. Nightingale's hands are hard on my shoulders, jerking me down into the strike, and I twist a bit away so it doesn't hit me squarely. It still rams into my lower right ribs with more than enough force to make me yelp in pain, though I'm _pretty_ sure nothing breaks, but at least it's not a straight blow to the stomach like the intention. I am very well aware that those majorly suck, and are a nearly guaranteed few seconds of being down and out. This is going to be nasty bruises, but it's painful more than crippling.

Nightingale shoves me back away from him, twisting and slamming the boot of his opposite leg into my chest as I fall back. It is very nearly dead center, and it _hurts_. I reel back, somehow managing to keep my feet underneath me so I stagger instead of just falling over, and Nightingale pauses for just a moment to rebalance. His hands lower, slipping a knife into each from his belt and holding them loosely between his fingers, and then he's coming at me again. But with knives, which are scarier than his bare hands even if I guess technically maybe not actually more deadly. His bare hands probably aren't going to rip apart my armor, or make me bleed _that_ much. _Knives_ on the other hand.

"Woah!" I call out, in a mild panic, as I jump backwards and away from a slash I'm pretty sure is aimed at my throat. "Can we," duck low, step sideways, "maybe _talk?_ " I jump backwards again, and oh hey that's a _wall_ that my back hits. Nightingale slashes out with the blade in his left hand, there is _nowhere_ for me to go, and then there's a new slice across the right side of my jaw. It's more fear and surprise than it is pain — it doesn't feel deep — that makes me cry out, but I can definitely feel blood starting to well up on the cut.

I raise my left hand in a totally unthinking move to do anything at all — I think I was going to try pushing him away, but I really don't know — but whatever I was going to do is pointless because Nightingale takes half a step away in immediate response. The blade in his right hand spins to a slightly firmer grip, and he slips back in just as my arm starts to recoil from the outwards push and drives the blade up as his left hand snaps out, lightning fast, and yanks my arm back out to keep me from jerking away. I shout as the knife sinks straight through my armored vest — why the hell am I even wearing the damn thing if it's this useless? — and securely into the meat of my back, far to the left side and maybe half a foot down from my shoulder.

I swear I feel it grate across the side of a rib.

The pain — and his unquestionable superiority as a hand to hand fighter — lets Nightingale twist and shove me against the wall chest first, keeping the blade in my back and yeah, now it's _definitely_ dragging across one of my ribs. I arch and try and shove myself backwards, but he presses hard against me, breath against the skin of my throat, and drags my left arm high up along my back until I give another sharp shout and grit my teeth together at the burn of my shoulder and the stabbing pain of the knife in my back. It can't be more than an inch in — small blade, and there's the width of the totally useless armor — but it _feels_ deeper.

I jerk, but don't make another noise, when he yanks the blade out of me. Everything in me wants to struggle, but I force myself just to clench my hands until the material of my gloves creaks and not move. Not fighting him is hard, but if this is what he does when I'm _not_ giving him a fight, I don't want to know how bad it will get if I actually do try anything.

He pulls my arm a little higher up my back, I strangle — oh, bad word choice — back a groan, and he presses a bit harder against me. I can feel the shift of the muscle underneath his suit, and the totally unyielding steel of all of that strength as one of his knees digs into the back of my right one, grinding my kneecap against the wall in front of it in a seriously unpleasant way.

"You're going to _back off_ ," he whispers in my ear, teeth snapping together like a period at the end of the demand and forcing an automatic cringe from me. I don't want those teeth _anywhere_ near my skin; I remember what Nightingale could do with those just casually, during sex, and it wasn't fun.

But what he's asking me to do… I won't.

"No," I refuse, bracing for pain but still not really prepared for the sharp sting of a slice to the side of my right hip, _just_ below where my vest starts. I jerk against him — which really only pushes me further into the nasty twist of my arm and press of his knee — and flatten my right hand against the wall to have something to ground me.

The cool metal of the knife — and that's definitely the wet feeling of my own blood — presses flat against the side of my throat, and I can feel the dig of Nightingale's elbow into the back of my right shoulder. Actually, the knife doesn't scare me that badly. I'm _pretty_ sure Nightingale won't kill me, even though it's dumb and totally suicidal to be trying to predict what he will or won't do. No one ever said that I had real great survival instincts, even though I like to think I do alright most of the time. Most of the people I'm around aren't out to kill me, to be fair.

This is kinda an exception.

I can't see Nightingale or the blade from the angle my head's been forced — to the left, and he's definitely staying to my right — but I can feel the scrape of the blade as he drags it up my neck, to underneath my jaw. I wonder how much of the blood I can feel getting smeared into my skin is from the knife, and how much is from that slice along my jaw. I really stopped paying much attention to how much that was bleeding about the time he put that knife in my back. My priorities aren't perfect, but sometimes they're half decent. Stab wound to the back equals more important than cut across jaw.

"It's not complicated, _archer_." The knife drags back down my throat, still just the flat of it. "This is _my_ show, he's _mine_ , and I can do this all day. I'll _enjoy_ it." His knee grinds mine into the wall, and the knife spins and — I'm pretty sure — takes a shallow slice out of the skin at my collar. I wince, but honestly the knee hurts worse; kneecaps aren't really supposed to get pressed on like that. "How much pain is Jason worth to you, Roy?"

"Did you _seriously_ just ask me that question?" My voice is incredulous, and the words come out before I can even think of how bad an idea it is to antagonize the guy with the knife at my throat. It's actually my left arm that pays for it, as he jerks it up my back. For that, I groan, pressing my head into the wall and trying not to struggle because at this rate he's going to dislocate my shoulder and I kind of _need_ that. Arms are kinda my livelihood; my right more so but I still need the left.

He eases up just a little — better, but my shoulder still _burns_ — and pulls the knife away from my throat. It's almost scarier not knowing where it is. "Try again."

"No, _seriously_." That question definitely deserves some actual consideration and lingering. "Did you not hear yourself?"

He steps away and pulls sharply backwards on my arm, yanking me away from the wall and then letting go to spin and shove me back against it again. At least this time it's with my back pressed to it, and I can actually see him. Maybe not a positive, because he looks _pissed_. His mouth is a sneer full of teeth, hands loose at his sides — the knife is gone, somewhere — and pretty much looking like he's about half a step away from ripping out my throat. That might not be the best comparison to make, since he's actually about half a step away and I really don't like having that visual in my head.

"Why don't you _enlighten_ me, archer?" he hisses, completely still and _so_ much scarier for it.

I swallow, flattening my hands against the wall even though every instinct says I should raise them in front of myself. There's no _point_ in fighting. "You asked me how much pain Jason was worth to me," I say, cautiously repeating his own words back at him. "You really don't seem to be in a kidding mood, but it _feels_ like a joke, alright?" That sneer turns into a bit more of a snarl, and I rush to my point because _fuck_ I don't want those teeth near me. "I love him. Jason's worth _everything_ to me."

Alright, so maybe the switch to a bright smile — still too many teeth — should feel like an improvement over the snarl, but it really doesn't. " _Nothing_ survives pain, and if you keep talking I'll _prove_ that."

"Woah, okay, alright. I am _not_ contesting that you could torture," the word definitely brings a sharp swirl of fear to my gut, "me into doing just about anything you want me to. I am _really_ sure you can." He's not lunging at me yet, even if that scary as hell smile is still on his face, so I bite back the urge to swallow and keep going. "Maybe it's just threatening words or something, but I don't understand how you can even ask what he's worth to me. He's _yours_ , shouldn't you know how amazing he is? Do you not love him?"

I probably deserve the fist to my stomach, and the hand that wraps around my throat when I fold over and slams me back against the wall. In fact, I _completely_ deserve it.

"Dumb question," I wheeze, past his hand and the shortness of breath from the punch. "Sorry. Not my business."

Alright, I want Jason as more than just a convenience — _if_ he wants it too; I'm so not pushing — so it's kinda my business, but Nightingale's relationship with Jason is way different and totally separate from _my_ relationship with Jason, so I don't have to know. I'm almost positive Jason loves Nightingale, and whoever he is under that mask, and it's really not my business exactly how that works, or if the feeling is mutual. I don't think I could understand the intricacies of inner Owl relationships even if I tried, and clearly asking is working _awesomely_.

"You say _anything_ like that again and I will strip the skin off your back piece by piece. _Clear?_ "

"Clear!" I gasp, and he pulls me forward by the throat — which _hurts;_ I'm seriously convinced that my whole neck is just going to be a mess of purple bruises tomorrow — and turns to fling me down onto the floor. I roll from the force he throws me with and end up on my back, more or less facing him. I start to push up on my elbows and he makes a _sharply_ displeased noise, so since I am at the very least not suicidal I immediately drop back, holding both hands up in surrender.

Nightingale steps closer, and I shut down every urge to try and get away. Also the one totally insane urge to kick out at his ankles and see if I can down him. "Give me _one_ reason I shouldn't see how much you take before you _snap_ , archer."

I swallow thickly, sucking my lips inwards for a moment to moisten them on pure automatic and _hey_ , that's the taste of my own blood. Wonder which cut that's from. "One reason? Okay, firstly, what _exactly_ do you want me to do?" His smile slides a little bit towards that dangerous thin line. "If you just want me to never tell Jason I love him that's fine, no problem; I'll keep my mouth shut. But if you want me to _leave_ him, or stop being around him?" The thought kinda makes me feel like Nightingale's landed another punch in my gut, and I drag in a shaky breath. "You might as well start with the torture because I'm not agreeing to that if I have any other choice."

He's very still, but the look on his face feels more considering than murderous, which is kind of a first for this 'talk'. For the first time it doesn't feel like he's about to put a knife in me, and I'm not _stupid_ enough to think that feeling actually means anything but at least a little part of me — off in a corner where it will _not_ affect my reactions — is seriously relieved. Maybe we're actually getting somewhere? Maybe I'm not about to die at any moment?

"Why wouldn't you tell him?" he demands, head tilting a bit to one side. Hey! I recognize that move! That's the, 'I'm listening to what you're saying and maybe even actually thinking about it' head tilt! Or, maybe the, 'I'm thinking about how best to gut you' head tilt…

It's hard to tell.

I give half a shrug before remembering that there's a stab wound in my back and my shoulder is who knows how badly damaged, and end up just cringing and grimacing for a moment instead. "Why do the words matter?" I ask, and his head tilts just a little further to that side. I'm _pretty_ sure that's the friendlier head tilt. "They're just words, and it's not like I'm going to stop loving him just because I never say it out loud." I swallow — he's just _staring_ — and my habit of spewing words when I'm nervous swings back into full force.

"Look, I was never going to tell Jason. I was just going to be whatever he wanted from me for as long as he wanted it, that's all. He doesn't love me back and I am _totally fine_ with that, but as long as he still wants me around then I'll stick around. I think he's totally amazing and unbelievably badass, and I'm still kind of blown away sometimes that he actually wants me at _all_ , and I really don't need anything more than that. Never did. He's totally yours and I'm not trying to replace you, or take him, or _anything_. All I want is to be there however he wants me, as long as he wants me."

I take a deep breath and wince a little bit, lowering my left hand to the ground because it hurts pretty badly to keep holding my arm up. "I don't want to fight you, Nightingale — and that's only sorta motivated by the fact that I know I'll _lose_ — but if you want me to leave him then you're demanding that I _hurt_ him. And I _won't_. Never."

Nightingale abruptly steps forward, retrieving a knife from somewhere with a flick of his right hand and crouching down over me, all in about a second and way too fast for me to really react. That's probably good, because I might have done something stupid and aggressive in response to the movement and that's really not the way to play this. Instead I just shift back a small distance before I can stop myself, my upheld right arm coming a little bit more in front of my face. Not gonna help, but it makes me feel a bit better about that knife.

"Tell me _exactly_ what you want from Jason," he demands, spinning the knife idly in his hand. Or maybe that's an intimidation tactic, and if it is it's _so_ working. Consider me intimidated.

I swallow, actually thinking about my words for once. Okay, _ideally_ I'd want Jason and Kori to love me back, and have a perfect awesome relationship with the two of them. Them actually being interested in each other is totally optional, so long as they coexist alright. But really, _realistically?_ What I want and what I can actually think about having are two totally different things, and I'm not going to waste time wishing for something that isn't going to happen.

"To be near him," I answer, cautiously lowering my arm. "That's it. As what, and _how?_ That's not my choice — or yours — it's _Jason's_ ; always will be and I'm never going to take that from him." A tiny shudder slips up my spine — maybe fear, _definitely_ pain — and I ease back against the ground and raise my chin just a little. It scares the _fuck_ out of me. "Do what you think you have to," I manage to say, and my voice only shakes a little bit.

I don't think he'll kill me — that feels messy, and maybe Oliver's actually important enough to Owlman that Nightingale won't jeopardize that? — but I'm really not sure if any of what I've said actually matters to him, and I know for a fact that Nightingale's got no problem with torture. I'm _positive_ he'd hurt me just for fun, and the fact that I'd agree to whatever he wanted would just be bonus.

I'm just really hoping that in some magical and admittedly unlikely way I actually got through to him, and he's just going to let me go on my merry way and keep sorta-dating his sorta-family. _Please_. I can talk a good game but I'm pretty sure I can't actually last long under Nightingale's attention, if he _does_ decide to torture me.

I jerk at a sharp sting on my lower right thigh, where it's mostly hidden by Nightingale's leg. His left arm is mostly pulled back behind his leg, and okay I've been staring at his face and that spinning knife in his right hand so I wasn't _looking_ but how the fuck did I _miss_ that? After a second his hand reappears, and there's a small syringe in it and oh _fuck_.

"Woah, wait a second. What did you just in—" The rush hits me, sweeping up my side and to my head, and I arch a little bit and cut off with a gasp. Hot _damn_ , that's quite the feeling. " _Christ_ ," I manage, my hands clenching, and as the wave pretty much picks me up and carries me off I can sorta recognize Nightingale straightening up and away from me.

But then the wave breaks, my eyes slide closed, and everything just kinda fades off into the darkness behind my eyes.

* * *

The sensation that shocks me out of sleep is the impact of my back against something, and I snap awake nearly immediately. Well, snap is a strong word, and so is awake. More, 'I'm something resembling conscious', and if you can call dragging my eyelids open fraction by fraction past the cotton in my head 'snapping'. I pull in a breath that feels like it catches and rakes its way down my throat, and it takes me a while — no _idea_ how long — to put together that the black and bronze-ish thing I'm seeing is a sky. Night sky, lots of light pollution.

I think I try moving, or maybe I just _think_ about trying to move, but nothing seems to really be working. So, because this is _clearly_ the best way to handle this, I close my eyes again. The sky was pretty enough, and whatever I'm lying on isn't that uncomfortable. My head is sideways, left cheek resting against whatever it is — resting sounds like such a _good_ idea — and when I shift just a tiny bit something scrapes across my skin. It stings, a little, but that's so unimportant and minor I don't even care.

Eventually something pushes against my right side, and I grumble and shift away from it. Then it _hits_ me.

I jerk and roll away, eyes _actually_ snapping open at the aching pain of the impact to my ribs, giving a startled sound somewhere between a gasp and a exclamation of pain. I grab instinctively at the point of pain, and then it occurs to me that I rolled sideways and turned my back on whatever hit me, and that's probably not the best of ideas. Right now I can just see a field of dark grey that it takes me a second to match up and then recognize as a gritty rooftop.

My body's only sort of responding to what I want it to do — I feel sluggish, slow; like there's a layer between my brain and everything else that nothing wants to go through — but I manage to get it to flip over onto my other side and then look up, halfway up on my left elbow even though I am slowly remembering that there are lots of bits of me that hurt. That shoulder, specifically, and most of my stomach and right side are sore. Also my neck. _Everything_ to do with my neck hurts. Swallowing, breathing, _existing_.

I follow the line of a leg covered in skintight black up to a hip, torso, and throat with streaks of dark blue, then to black hair and white teeth in a smile. Nightingale.

"Time to get up, archer," he says, mockingly.

I'm out of the Roost, is what slowly connects in my head. This is a rooftop in… Gotham? Must still be Gotham. Probably. Shit. God, whatever he drugged me with — I definitely remember that now — was strong; I feel foggy and just plain _awful_. I probably slept through the worst of it though, for however long he let me stay dazed after dropping me here, which must have been what originally startled me a bit towards consciousness.

I part my lips, thinking of saying 'I'm not dead,' or 'good to see you,' or maybe even just 'where am I?'

"Good place to kill someone," is what comes out of my mouth, for some reason.

His smile gets a little wider, and he sinks down to crouch next to me. I should stop the hand that reaches out, especially considering what I just said, but I don't get that far in thought process before he's running fingers over my throat. I grimace and twist my head away and towards the rooftop, teeth gritting together as I make an involuntary, whimpering sound of pain through them. The touch _burns_.

"You'll heal," he says dismissively, then his fingers curl under the side of my jaw and pull my head back up to look at him. And hey, there's a cut there and I think it's closed now but it still stings to have his fingers on it. He looks down at me for a long few moments, smile fading away to a neutral expression, and then briefly tightens his fingers. I wince."I'm going to let you go," he says softly, "and I'm going to let you stay with Jason." My eyes widen, my heart rises in my chest, and he tightens his fingers again and _yanks_ my head up a few inches. "If you go back on _anything_ you said, Harper, if for one _second_ you hurt Jason or do anything but be _totally_ loyal, I will _rip you to pieces_." He twists his hand and flicks my head back down as he rises to his feet, and then his boot is at my shoulder and shoving me onto my back, grinding his heel down into the muscle and pinning me to the rooftop. He gives a sharp, _terrifying_ , smile and tilts his head a bit to the right. "I'd _love_ for you to test that."

I have time to swallow — which _fuck_ , _ouch_ , bad idea — before he's pushing off my shoulder and spinning, striding across the rooftop without so much as a glance back at me. I stare at the line of blue across his shoulders, halfway into something like shock, until he casually jumps off the edge of the rooftop and out of view. Then, and _only_ then, do I pretty much collapse back against the gritty cement, staring up at the night sky.

Half of me is insisting that I burst into hysterical laughter because holy _fuck_ I just survived an encounter with a pissed off Nightingale, and I don't even have any broken bones or serious stab wounds on top of the actual surviving part. And I _won_.

Well, if you call this 'winning.'

I'm still alive, I'm not _that_ badly hurt, and hey, I got what I wanted! I get to keep seeing Jason without the threat of death or crippling injuries from Nightingale, so long as I stay devoted to him. _No_ problem there. In my book I think that counts as a victory, or at least a draw.

On the other hand, the other half of me is busy cringing, wincing, and trying to put together all the things I should be paying attention to instead of staring at the sky. Like say, all these bruises and minor cuts, or that minor stab wound in my back. Or, maybe, the fact that I'm on some random rooftop in Gotham and really in no condition to be traveling anywhere. Especially considering how much of a mess I probably look like. There's however much I was bleeding, plus the blood from Jason — Christ, him getting hurt feels like it happened _days_ ago — and then there's all the bruising that's probably starting to become really obvious.

I probably shouldn't be seen anywhere resembling 'public.'

I push myself up on my elbows and then painfully to my knees, clasping my left arm around my stomach more on automatic than for any real kind of reason. Glancing around the rooftop reveals it's a fairly large one, and that I'm pretty seriously high up. I think this is one of Gotham's actual skyscrapers, near the downtown area, but I could be totally wrong. I haven't been by Gotham much; it's kind of a forbidden zone to anyone not accompanied by an Owl, and Jason doesn't like it much.

More importantly, there's a pile about ten feet from me that's all the gear I originally woke up without in the Roost. My bow, quivers, gun, and the larger knife that fits into the sheath at my thigh. Oh _yes_ ; I was going to miss those if they didn't get returned to me. I think I trust Black Talon to keep casual promises, like when he told me I'd get it all back when I left the Roost, but expecting one Owl to keep another's word is something totally different. Still, at least I _did_ get my weapons back. I'm really fond of that particular bow.

Now there is the question of how I'm getting out of Gotham.

I don't think I've got the coordination to do my normal swinging on a cable thing — plus I don't actually know how badly my left shoulder is injured, or if it would take that kind of strain — and skyscrapers really aren't in my area of expertise anyway. I definitely can't pass as a civilian right now, even if I break into someone's apartment, clean up, and steal a bag for my gear and a coat to hide my costume. Obviously the Owls aren't going to help, and I wouldn't know how to contact any of them even if I thought they would; I've only got Jason's number. That leaves…

I wince, and then reach into my belt and discover that thankfully my phone survived this whole thing, and even still has a charge. Wonderful. I punch in the quick dial option, and hold it up to my ear as I sit back onto my ass and take another glance up at the sky. It takes four rings, but the other side of the call does pick up.

" _Good of you to check in, Roy,"_ Oliver says with dry sarcasm.

"Hey, Ollie," I answer, and _wow_ is my voice just an awful mess. I sound like I chain-smoked my way through a whole pack of cigarettes, or gargled acid or something. "I could use a ride."

" _Are you drunk?"_ he asks bluntly, and I can hear the snap of a bowstring in the background of the call. No way he'd use my name if he was out on patrol, he must be shooting practice targets.

"Bruised and bloody," I correct, tilting my head back a bit, "but after a few painkillers and a pack of ice I would _love_ a drink. I'm kind of on the roof of some random skyscraper in Gotham, do you think you could maybe pick me up, _please?_ "

" _Gotham?"_ he repeats, incredulously. " _What are you doing in Gotham?"_

I shove out a breath, and ease my way down to lay back on the solid surface of the rooftop. "It's a long story, there are some things I should tell you, and I promise I will but right now I'm kinda stuck up here. Also pain; lots of pain. So can I have that ride?" Let's start with the fact that Oliver only kind of knows I'm bisexual, and I'm not totally sure he's put together that I've been sleeping with Jason. Most of our conversations happen over gangs, and personal lives aren't the best things to talk about while you're shooting people.

Also, Oliver's pretty much straight — the corner of my mind supplies 'as an arrow,' and giggles to itself — as far as I know, and I'm not totally sure of his views on the not-so-straight. I'm almost certain he's just fine with it, but sometimes people get weird when the not-so-straight person is part of their actual family, or close to them. At least the Owls are obviously past all that. I've seen proof that both Jason and Nightingale are bisexual, and I'm really not clear about Black Talon but I _think_ he's straight out homosexual. The newest Talon is too young, but there are rumors aplenty about Owlman himself. I know he sleeps with a fair number of women, but I haven't seen anything obvious about him with another man. Then again, he's part of the older generation. Maybe he's just more subtle about it.

Should be fine telling Oliver, but I can't help being just a little nervous. It's a big thing, and considering that I'm also admitting to being not just bisexual but non-monogamous, it's an even bigger thing.

" _I'm bringing Dinah,"_ Oliver says, in that 'no argument' tone of voice that I absolutely hate hearing since he barely ever uses it, and I wince.

"Really? Do you _have_ to?" Alright, so technically Oliver is my dad, and technically Dinah is my mom, but Dinah actually feels like a mother most of the time whereas Oliver is really just an older brother. All the time. Oh god, Dinah's going to _freak_ when she sees these bruises. I really hope she's not going to try and confront any of the Owls over this.

" _You're injured on a rooftop in Gotham and you won't tell me why. Yes, I'm bringing her. Be there soon as we can; call you when I'm closer."_

The call clicks off, and I whisper an, "Oh _hell_ ," into the night.

I have a _lot_ of explaining to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So on a slightly random tangent, if any of you have seen the new/short series from ABC, 'Galavant', there are a few lyrics in there that describe Dick's ending view of Roy here pretty much perfectly. - 'And though I'll never like you, it's nice to realize, maybe I shouldn't quite say 'never.' Maybe, you're not the worst thing ever.' If you haven't seen Galavant, oh my god. It's amazing, and I want a second season really badly. Go watch it!
> 
> You'll get more of Dick's view of this whole thing after (how I mentioned I'm writing that followup piece from Dick's PoV) I'm done posting the last chapter of this, and quite possibly some of Tim's view and maybe even Bruce's after that. I know a few background pieces - like what Bruce said to Dick as he left - but I'm not sure if I'll just mention them or if I'll write a collection of these smaller moments later. We'll see.
> 
> For now, I hope you enjoyed, I'd love to know what you think, and I will see you next week!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, part three! This is the last part of this particular story, and it's shorter than last chapter and pretty much nothing but plot/character development and a whole lot of adorable. As mentioned, I actually wrote this part before I wrote part two, so I ended up having to go through and make changes and add things because I didn't know how that whole Dick/Roy confrontation was going to go. (Sometimes, I swear, these characters just do things and there is absolutely no other way the scene could have gone. They write it themselves.)
> 
> There are no warnings for this chapter (weird for me, I know!); enjoy!

Being in a limo isn’t new to me. But, being in a limo in _Gotham_ is most definitely new, even though the driver is pretty much only taking the main roads. Well, until we got to the outskirts, and then it nearly felt like a winding country road which is really just strange. I didn’t think Gotham had actual _green_ anywhere but that one park in the middle, but here we are and there are trees, and grass, and it’s pretty but just feels _weird_.

I lower my head to take another look out the window and up the hill we’re climbing, and then wince and resist the urge to adjust the black turtleneck and touch my neck. The bruises around my throat are the only part of my ‘talk’ with Nightingale that hasn’t healed yet, and they’re faded and not the black and purple marks they were but they’re still obvious, and they still hurt. So, turtleneck it is. Arsenal can go out with bruises and no one thinks anything of it; Roy Harper not so much.

Especially not company like _this_.

Alright, so I admit to being confused by it, but I’m answering the call of an invitation from Richard aka Dick Grayson, eldest son of the Wayne family. I didn’t even know he had my number, honestly, but it’s totally possible I gave it to him at some point. We Queens are more or less friends with the Waynes as a whole, and it definitely helps that they’re all the way across the country and Queen Industries mostly doesn’t compete with Wayne Enterprises. That _really_ helps.

Still, the invitation is kinda out of left field, even though it’s not like I was going to _refuse_. Yeah, maybe a trip to Gotham isn’t the most healthy idea right now — I’m not sure how angry Nightingale might still be with me; the Owls have pretty much been publicly silent that last two weeks — but I’ll take the theoretical ambush to maybe get some news about Jason. He was going to be alright, but I haven’t heard anything and that kind of worries me. Probably just Nightingale keeping him out of contact.

 _Ooo_ , don’t _go_ there, Roy. Nightingale is so not the enemy and I can’t think of him that way. He’s part of Jason’s family, and being anything but friendly isn’t going to win me anything at all. Even if he _is_ keeping Jason out of contact with me, there are probably reasons, and it’s not like any of the Owls would actually let me back in the Roost. Pretty sure that was a one time, ‘in case of sudden death’ thing. I’m not going to blame Nightingale for anything, especially when I’m just considering things and don’t actually know any facts.

Even Black Talon has pretty much been absent from the team, and Nightingale has been straight out gone except when something happens and a few of us are needed. Even then he’s total business, and doesn’t socialize before he takes off again.

The driver takes a right turn and starts up what looks like a private driveway — gotta be the Wayne Manor’s driveway — and I lean back against the seat and close my eyes for a second.

At least _some_ things have gone very obviously my way recently

I was absolutely dreading that conversation with Oliver and Dinah, about how I’m dating Kori, but sort of also dating Jason, and love them both but they don’t love me, and hey also I’m bisexual and non-monogamous. Oh yeah, and Jason loves someone else and that’s the guy who beat the crap out of me and threatened to tear me into little bits, and he happens to be the first sidekick of your scariest ally. Just by the way. That’s a hell of a thing to have to tell your pretty-much-parents.

But, mostly to my surprise but also a serious amount of relief, it went really well.

Oliver can be pretty much allergic to words when it comes to any kind of important emotional event, but Dinah makes up for it, and she can translate out Oliver’s stiff ‘I don’t know what to say’ speech into actual words. She only asked two questions: if I wanted revenge on Nightingale, and if I was happy. Oliver might have gone a little pale and kinda horrified looking at the idea of going after the eldest ex-Talon of the Owl family, but I reassured them both that no, I didn’t want revenge, and yes, I was happy.

Of course, after that first talk she started doing that in between a mother and a friend _thing_ , where she wanted to know _all about_ Kori and Jason. I’m kind of worried what might happen when Dinah eventually comes face to face with one of them, which is going to happen at some point. Especially Jason. I’m more worried about her coming face to face with Jason, though she might just latch on to that traumatized, dark half of him and settle herself in to try and fix him. The two of them could do some serious damage to each other if they end up not clicking.

Guess I won’t know until it happens, but I really do hope that he gets along with Dinah. Not _just_ for the sake of their physical health but also because I really don’t want to get caught in the middle of that particular fight.

The limo pulls to a stop, and I call a thanks — be nice to the people that serve you, right? — and get out without waiting for the driver to come around and open the door. Never really liked that part of being rich, though I put up with it for the sake of the cameras in Star City. Gotta look like the rich playboy, right? Always gotta be a Queen playing the part of the irresponsible son; I’m just taking over for Oliver.

The limo pulls away a few seconds after I close the door again, as I take a step forward on the gravel driveway. The manor pretty much towers over me, and I can’t help swallowing. It’s definitely got an upper hand in the intimidation department; hard to get intimidated by a penthouse door.

Okay, it’s a step above the penthouse. At least, if you like faintly gloomy, old mansions that look like they take more than your average apartment’s cost per week just to keep in decent shape. But hey, this is _Wayne Manor_ , it’s not like money is any kind of an issue for them. At worst they what, lose a zero off their net worth? That still makes them the richest family… pretty much ever. At least in Gotham.

More than Oliver and me, anyway, and we’re nowhere near hurting.

“Hey, Roy!” The call is bright, welcoming, and I look down from the stories of curtained windows and kinda gothic architecture — only in Gotham, man — to the man heading down the stairs leading up to the doors. The kinda impossibly handsome man. That seems to be a Wayne thing.

I head forward, meeting him at the bottom of them. “Hey, Dick!”

He’s in a long-sleeved black sweatshirt and a pair of tight blue jeans, barefoot, with a wide grin that I recognize from news footage and the times we’ve hung out at social gatherings of the rich and powerful. Not many people our age at those things, you take company where you can get it. Dick’s a pretty cool guy, we get along well enough.

“Welcome to the manor,” he says, tilting his head up towards the doors. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

He starts back up the stairs, I follow. “Yeah, not to look a gift horse in the mouth but why the invitation?” Dick _is_ a cool guy, I like him, but he’s a Gotham kid and I’m Star City. That’s a decent ways to go to hang out with someone, even for us people with private jets. Gotham’s richest heir can’t be that desperate for some kind of company.

He flashes me another smile and gives a bright laugh, taking the next step backwards as he looks back at me. “Well you’re decent enough company; figured it was time you saw the house. Plus, I’m kinda interested what you’re like when you’re not in a suit.”

“Much more comfortable,” I say with a laugh. “Seen your house before though, been to a party or two here.”

He snorts and pauses in front of the door, making sure I’m there before he turns the handle and pushes one side open. “Yeah, but that’s the official parts we show off. There’s so much more, plus you’ll get to meet the rest of my family when they’re not posing for the cameras.”

Dick slips in ahead of me, and I follow him in. It’s pretty quiet, and my footsteps — just in basic sneakers — sound loud against the polished, white marble floor. I push the door closed — the clunk of the lock nearly echoes — and follow Dick through a door almost immediately to the left, left open about two feet by someone. Maybe even Dick on his way out to greet me. He pushes through and steps aside for me, and the floor under my shoes transfers from marble to wood pretty much seamlessly.

It’s a large, really nicely decorated living room, with some of the most comfortable looking chairs and couches I’ve seen in a long time, bookshelves filled with books and various trinkets lining a fair amount of the walls, a large wall-mounted TV with gaming systems underneath, and a fireplace complete with an actual roaring fire. There are a couple of other doors leading in, but they’re all closed for the moment. It’s also got three people scattered throughout it.

The youngest one is hanging down backwards from the couch stationed in front of the TV, legs hooked over the back of it and controller in his hand, playing whatever game is up on the screen. Some kind of first-person shooter. That’s Damian Wayne, the ten year old kid who pretty much just showed up out of the blue one day. Bruce Wayne’s illegitimate son or something, unlike his two adopted ones.

The second one is sitting in the chair to the right of Damian’s couch, facing towards the entrance I’m standing in front of. His feet are propped up on the coffee table, and he’s got a laptop open, resting on his knees. That’s Tim, either Drake or Wayne depending on who he’s talking to, the one who’s apprenticing under his adopted dad to take over as leader of Wayne Enterprises eventually. I’ve actually talked to him occasionally, unlike Damian, and he’s nice. Also nearly as scary as his dad can be sometimes, when he wants something. I don’t know how many times I’ve thanked a god I don’t believe in that I haven’t got any hand in Queen Industries. I don’t want to face any of the Wayne family in a business meeting.

The last is the obvious one. Bruce Wayne. His two sons are in more casual clothes — Damian in sweatpants and a white tanktop, and Tim in a thick green sweater and black slacks — but he’s halfway dressed up, in a white button up shirt tucked into black slacks, and a dark blue tie pulled snugly around his neck. He’s seated at a table about ten feet in from the wall to my right, in front of some of the bookcases, with a tablet in one hand and a mug of something in front of him. The table looks a bit like it gets used as a less formal place to eat, which I get. Can’t be fun trying to eat as a family at those massive, forty person dining tables like the one they have.

Three pairs of blue eyes in different shades flick up to me when I walk in, and I am not in the least bit ashamed to admit that they freeze me in place for a second. There’s just something about Waynes; they’ve got this _intensity_.

Dick closes the door behind me as Mr. Wayne gives a smooth smile, setting the tablet down and turning in his chair to face me a little more directly. “Roy, isn’t it?” he asks, in what’s totally a rhetorical question but I nod anyway. “Welcome to my home. Please, take a seat.” He motions to the chair to his left, on the opposite side of the table where I’ll be able to talk to him, but still see everyone else in the room.

Probably wasn’t the intention, but it makes me feel a little better than having to turn my back on the rest of them.

I cross the room, trying not to be as outwardly halting and hesitant as I feel. I don’t hear Dick follow me — bare feet, so not much sound I suppose — but when I loop around the other end of the table from Mr. Wayne, and get to see the rest of the room, he’s only a few steps behind me. I take the seat I was offered while Dick stands behind his father, arms looping down around his neck, head on his shoulder. That feels… familiar, but I can’t place where from.

The look I get from Mr. Wayne is a pretty obvious studying, stripping, _prying_ , thing. I do my best not to fidget under it, but I don’t think I succeed all that well. How is it I can take these kind of looks without caring, with a smile, when I’m Arsenal, but turn me back into Roy and suddenly I’ve got no resistance? Are Waynes seriously just that scary? No one who doesn’t wear a mask, fight crime, or _cause_ crime should be this unnerving.

Mr. Wayne makes a considering noise, a quiet ‘hmm’ of thought, and I clasp my hands together in my lap and try not to think about how much I feel like a kid in front of their principal. Not fair. Not fair at all.

“Are you certain about this, Dick?” Mr. Wayne asks, without looking away from me. I glance sideways, at Dick, who offers me a bright smile as he straightens up just a little bit.

“Yeah, I am,” he answers.

“For the record,” Damian interrupts, from across the room, “I do _not_ agree with this course of action, father.” The game clicks off, and I watch the youngest Wayne lift himself up from his upside down hanging to sitting on the back of the couch. That’s kinda impressive for a normal person; kid’s got some muscle. He sneers at me, and Dick laughs.

“But you don’t like _anyone_ ,” Dick points out, “besides, Tim’s vote cancels yours out. Learn to deal.”

“I still don’t understand why _you’re_ going along with this,” Damian snaps at the middle Wayne sibling, who gives a small smile and looks over at me.

“I have my reasons,” Tim says quietly, and something about the curl of his lips feels _really_ familiar but for the life of me I can’t place it, “and I did my research. Also, Alfred agrees that it’s a good idea.” Damian crosses his arms and shakes his head, but doesn’t continue the argument.

“Uh, no offense,” and speaking seemed like such a _good_ idea until it got me back the attention of all four Waynes, “but this feels a bit like I wandered into a business meeting without getting any kind of info packet first. Is this some kind of debate? Did I miss something?”

Dick and Tim share an amused glance, and Mr. Wayne just smiles at me, smooth and kind of… patient? Yeah, like fatherly patience. That’s a little weird, but I guess he could be condescending, impatient, or just mocking instead. I’ll take patience over getting laughed atany day.

“Nothing you should know,” Mr. Wayne reassures me. “You know my sons, of course?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, raising one hand to make small gestures as he introduces them. “Damian, Tim, and Dick.”

“We’ve met, yeah.” I raise a hand, rubbing it over the back of my neck. “Parties and stuff, social gatherings. Sir?”

Mr. Wayne reaches for his mug, taking a sip of it before answering me. “Yes, Roy?”

“This is a really nice house,” I start, “and don’t think I don’t appreciate the invitation here because I do — _thanks_ —  but uh… I’m kinda getting the impression there’s some other reason I’m here.” Dick and Tim share another glance, with a little bit more of a sharply amused edge, and I swallow. “Could you fill me in here, maybe? Please?”

Mr. Wayne gives a very quiet laugh, and then deliberately tilts his head to point back behind me. I hesitate a second, then turn to look the same direction. My breath catches in my throat, and I’m pretty sure my heart skips a beat or something just about as _what the fuck?_ That can’t be right. I’m hallucinating, right? Or this is all some really weird dream and I’ll wake up and be _actually_ headed for the Wayne manor to hang out with Dick Grayson.

“Jason?” I ask, somewhere in between shock and disbelief.

The man leaning against one side of the now-open doorway at that side of the room, about fifteen feet away and between a couple of bookcases — it almost feels hidden — offers me a crooked, tired, grin. “Hey, Roy.”

He straightens up as I stare, but immediately winces and folds back against the side of the doorway. I’m moving before I can think about it, pushing away from the table and rushing across the space between us. He’s not falling, just leaning, but I catch him anyway, looping a careful arm around his waist and the other under his left arm, high on his shoulders and equally carefully. He feels warm, solid, and a lot less hallucination-like than I was expecting. He’s also faintly, _barely_ , shaking.

“ _Christ_ , Jason you _idiot_. You shouldn’t be standing!” Owl or not, the kind of damage Doomsday did to Jason is _not_ the kind of stuff you just shake off. It’s barely been two weeks, which is not _nearly_ enough time for him to have healed anything but the minor stuff. Not, you know, the holes in his back, or the broken ribs, or the broken _arm_. “Come on,” I demand, gently pulling him off the doorframe so he’s leaning mostly on me. He actually gives a bitten back groan at the change, so he must be in a _lot_ of pain.

I try and get him over to one of the chairs at the table as quickly, but smoothly and painlessly, as I can. I think it works at least mostly the way that I intend it to. At least Jason doesn’t make any more obviously in pain noises. I ease him down into the chair — he’s breathing a little shakily, and harder than normal, but it could be worse, right? He’s alright — and run a gentle hand back along his forehead and scalp as his head tilts back, and his eyes flick shut for a second.

He gives a little snort of amusement, opening his eyes against to look up at me. “What?” I ask, and his mouth curls in a weak grin as he leans into my touch.

“Waiting for you to put things together,” he answers, quietly, and pointedly flicks the hand on his not broken arm at the rest of the room.

I follow the movement, up to the mixture of amused and — in Damian’s case — dismissive looks of the four Wayne family members. Dick straightens up behind Mr. Wayne, hands resting on his father’s shoulders as he gives me a smile that I swear to god I’ve seen on someone else. Who is it? I am missing something so glaringly obvious and _right in my face_ it’s ridiculous.

“Wonderful,” Damian drawls, dropping off the back of the couch to the floor, “you’ve invited a moron into the family, Todd. You have such _wonderful_ taste.”

Wait, how does the Wayne family know Jason? Why aren’t they freaking out about having a dead guy in their house? What is—

“ _Oh_ ,” I breathe, and Jason gives another snort.

Mr. Wayne, or goddamn _Owlman_ , offers a thin smirk over his mug. “Why don’t you sit down, Arsenal?” He inclines the mug towards the chair across from him, at the opposite head of the table and directly to the left of the one Jason's sitting in. “Next to my son, naturally.”

I obey mostly out of shock, way more than anything else. Holy _fuck_. The Waynes _are_ the Owls. So that makes Mr. Wayne — Bruce — the Owlman; Dick must be Nightingale, which makes a bit too much sense; Tim is Black Talon, the laptop should have made that obvious I guess; and Damian must be the newer Talon. And Jason, Jason must be that son that everybody knows was part of the Wayne family, but was killed in an explosion while on a vacation. The one they don’t talk about. Alright, so not only am I dealing with the nastiest, most deadly group of Crime Syndicate members ever, but they also happen to be pretty much the richest family in the world?

Oh I'm so _screwed_.

I clear my throat, studying the way Dick, Nightingale, is smirking at me. “So, what are the chances that you're about to kill me?” I ask, heart in my throat.

Okay, so I don't think Jason would actually allow that, normally. But Jason is pretty fucked up at the moment, and he definitely couldn't stand up to the rest of his family if they decided that they wanted me dead. That's not exactly a comforting bit of protection, even though I'm sure he'd be pissed and I don't _think_ that Nightingale, at least, would risk that kind of anger. I've got no _clue_ what Owlman thinks of me, but obviously Talon doesn't like me, and I know that Nightingale isn't all that fond of me either, not recently. Still got those bruises, thanks. I think the only member of the family I might have on my side is Black Talon — oh, _‘T’_ , I get the nickname now — but he's pretty much impossible to read. I think he's at least vaguely on my side, but I could be totally wrong.

Dick laughs, and Owlman's smirk gets just a little bigger. Gotta admit, it's pretty easy to imagine him in his helmet. “Minimal,” he answers easily, “assuming you don't disappoint me. Boys.”

Damian rolls his eyes, and makes that 'tt'-ing noise that I remember hearing from Talon so many times, but heads toward the table. Tim sets the laptop aside and does the same, and _damn_ does he look skinny outside of his suit, but I guess appearance isn't everything. I know he's got way more strength than it looks like he does.

They both take seats, Tim to my left and Damian in the seat between him and Owlman, and Dick slides his way around the table — oh yeah, _there's_ the Nightingale grace — to take the last empty seat between Jason and their father. Holy shit, Owlman is _legitimately_ Jason's dad. Oh jesus, Black Talon was right to warn me, this is such a terrible idea. This does not compare to getting grilled by some normal parent about whether I’m worthy of their son or daughter, not even close.

“You care for my son, don't you Roy?”

I swallow, sitting very straight and very still because even with him outside of the helmet — maybe even _more_ so, actually — I seriously feel like a mouse getting stared at by, well, an Owl. I'm _so_ dead. “Yes, sir.” I'm kind of absurdly proud that my voice doesn't shake the way that it feels like it's going to.

“Mmm,” it's kind of a noncommittal noise that he makes, but it's not automatically condemning and it doesn't sound like a command to flay me alive, so that's something. I swallow again. “Jason has expressed his interests to me, and Dick and Tim have vouched for you,” he says steadily, watching me. “That is the _only_ reason you are being allowed to know who we are. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” is still the only answer I have, but I glance over at the casual sprawl of Dick. Seriously, _he_ vouched for me? “But you don't _like_ me,” I say, before I can stop the words from leaving my tongue, and then I stiffen and flush. Jason snickers, Tim gives a small smile, and Damian's frown gets a little more pronounced. “Jason, you're not _helping_ ,” I hiss at him, in a kinda accusatory way but I feel that's pretty within my rights. He's pretty much throwing me at the mercy of his family. They're not real well known for their mercy.

“What does that matter?” Dick says, with an arched eyebrow and a bright smile that's definitely one of those 'I can hurt you' ones. “You're not fucking _me_ , Roy.”

“Dick,” Owlman says, warningly, and Dick shrugs and leans a little farther back in his chair. “Language, please. Now,” he continues, aiming his words at me, “there are of course ground rules. Naturally, if you violate any of them, you'll be killed. I imagine you're not foolish enough to think that there is anywhere in the world that you can hide if you cross us, or if you hurt Jason.”

I shake my head, and follow it up with a quick, “No, absolutely not.” I swallow, glance at Jason — who's watching me, even if he does look pretty exhausted — and then meet Owlman's gaze squarely. “And I wouldn't, sir. Never.”

I guess the time for secrets is kind of over. Obviously what I yelled at Nightingale, Dick, got passed along to the members of the family that weren’t there. Talon and Owlman, anyway, I have no idea if they told Jason or not. God, I hope they didn’t. I’d kind of like the privilege of being the one to tell him something that’s this important. Dick’s not that much of a bastard, ri—

 _Fuck_.

Owlman — should I still be calling him Mr. Wayne, or maybe… Bruce? — gives a very thin smile, like he knows what I’m thinking about. “The most obvious rule, of course, is that you won’t be breathing a word of any of our identities to anyone. That includes your father Oliver, and Koriand’r. Anyone you tell will die as messily as you will, understood?”

I nod, and then flinch sharply when Jason smacks me in the side of the thigh. “Ow; _what?_ ”

“Verbal answers,” he retorts, raising an eyebrow in nearly the same way that Dick just did. That’s gotta be a learned Owl thing. Or maybe a Wayne thing?

I reach over, catching Jason’s hand. “Alright, sorry.” He studies me for a second, then shifts a little closer and closes his eyes as he lets out a deep breath. That shakes. Jesus, Jason is _not alright_. He should be laid up, in a bed, unconscious or drugged all to hell, not sitting here. This is a _bad_ time to be doing this. I raise my gaze back to Owlman, who’s watching me completely steadily. “I understand, sir. May I ask a question?”

“Beyond the one you just did?” Embarrassment burns sharply into my cheeks, and Owlman gives another thin smile and sets his mug down. “Go ahead, Roy.”

I swallow — Christ, I’d really like to be able to shut _that_ tell down — and nod, gathering my words together for a second before I speak. “This is pretty sudden, what changed?”

Oh, is _that_ where that single eyebrow raise came from? Owlman looks amused more than anything — that’s good, right? — and his eyes narrow for just a second, before he flicks his gaze towards Jason. “I think you know what changed. You said a few interesting things to Dick, and to Tim. They were passed on to me.”

Jason’s eyes open, and he shifts, straightens up a bit in the chair. “They’ve been bastards,” he grumbles, with a half-hearted glare. “Won’t tell me what it was.” He turns a bit, to look at me, and takes in a sharp breath. His hand clenches down on mine, more than enough to hurt, and he grimaces and eases back against the chair, head tilting back. I try really hard to just let him have my hand, and not complain about the painful press of his fingers around mine.

Thank _god_ , none of them told Jason what I said. That’s good at least.

“So, I know this is a really important conversation that definitely needs to happen,” I aim at Owlman, and Jason’s eyes snap open, “but could we postpone it, or maybe move it?”

“What the fuck are you doing?” Jason hisses at me, and I give a tiny squeeze back to his painfully tight hand and flash a grin.

“Give me a second,” I answer, without actually answering him. Owlman is studying me, fingers curled around his mug, and I’m getting some looks from the other Owl members that are somewhere between curious, irritated, and maybe murderous. Or maybe that last one is just in my head because Owls are scary as fuck; I’d have to look closer at them to be sure and Owlman kinda has my attention. “Jason isn’t healed,” I point out, holding the gaze of the blue eyes that are busy stripping me apart at the seams, “and he shouldn’t be up. I’m not crazy enough to say let’s talk without him,” I glance at Jason, “so please don’t take it that way, but could we maybe wait until he _is_ a little healed? Or could we at least move somewhere where he doesn’t have to be sitting, or there are drugs? Drugs would probably be good.” They’re just staring at me, and I swallow. “Uh, please?”

Dick smirks, trading glances around the table before looking over at Jason. “He’s adorable, little wing. Really.” He shakes his head and his smirk turns a little brighter, into a smile, as he looks past Jason at me. “Jason’s an Owl, and it’s just pain. He can handle it.”

“Well, yeah,” I answer, giving a small shrug. “I know that.” I meet Jason’s gaze, and I’m not totally sure what the look is that he’s giving me but I’m kinda worried I might have offended him. “I’m sonot contesting that you can handle yourself — you’re _so_ much scarier than I am — and I never would, promise. But,” I look back down the table, at Owlman, “if there’s an alternative way, shouldn’t he not _have_ to just handle it?”

Oh, how far did I just shove my foot in my mouth? Is this some kind of an Owl thing, where you just don’t acknowledge pain? Did I just bring up the elephant in the room that everybody else had agreed to ignore? Or is it just an elephant to me, and the rest of them don’t even consider it something worth mentioning?

Owlman tilts his head a bit to one side, blue eyes slipping to Tim. “I agree with you,” he says smoothly, and then shares a nod with Dick. This is some _psychic_ level communication going on here, seriously. I know how to talk silently — you can’t _always_ be trading jabs in a fight — but not with this kind of mastery. There’s gotta be previous conversations coming into play here that I don’t know about. “Roy,” I snap to attention, “why don’t you tell Jason what you’ve told Dick and Tim?”

I freeze, and he smirks. “I… _now?_ ” He nods, slowly, and raises his mug back to his mouth. “I wasn’t really picturing an audience,” I manage to say, quietly, and Damian snorts.

“Coward,” he spits, and Owlman makes a reprimanding noise but doesn’t speak, watching me.

Oh fuck, alright. Yeah, sure, just confess love in front of the guy’s entire, murderous, family. Sure, why not? Easy, right? It’s not like the rest of them don’t already know, it’s just a confirmation. Deep breaths, it’s just _words_. I can manage saying three words to Jason, can’t I? Even if it is in front of his family, that will _kill_ me if I disappoint. Well, better say the damn words then so I _don’t disappoint_.

I turn to Jason, who looks confused as all hell and maybe a bit pissed. I squeeze his hand, getting his attention, and force a grin to my face. I probably look pretty seriously terrified, and the pissed part of Jason’s look is pretty rapidly swapping over to worried. Just _words_ , come on. I yelled it at Dick, told it to Tim, and survived conversations with both of them about it. I can handle saying it to his face.

“You look like you’re facing an executioner,” he points out, softly. “I’m sure you can just say whatever it is.”

“I love you,” I blurt, taking his words to heart and just speaking without thinking about it. Jason blinks, staring at me, and past him Dick laughs.

“The _king_ of subtlety you are, Roy. Practice that touching speech much?”

I swallow, that damn flush coming back to my cheeks, and then Jason tilts his head. His eyes narrow a little bit, and the staring goes from surprise to consideration. “Huh,” he says, his grip loosening on my hand before he lets go.

Okay, so that might freak some part of me out because suddenly I’m just _speaking_. “I’m not asking you for anything, not at all. Nothing has to change, _I’m_ not going to change, and I don’t expect you to change either. They’re just words, and you don’t have to say them back, or feel what they mean, or anything at all. Not asking, promise. It’s just what I feel and I might have shouted it at Dick and—”

“ _Roy_ ,” Jason snaps, and I click my mouth closed immediately. He reaches in, taking my hand again, and then turns his head to look at Tim. “You’re a manipulative little _bastard_ ,” he says, but I swear it sounds… amused? Or maybe, pleased? What’s that about? Jason looks back over at me, and I swallow and resist the building urge to spew more words. I really have to work on wanting to just _talk_ whenever I’m nervous. “Come here,” Jason demands, tugging at my hand.

I follow the tug, sliding my chair over to the corner of the table till there’s only about a half a foot between us. He lets go of my hand again, and reaches up to take a handful of the cloth at my shoulder, pulling me into him and I go because I’m not totally nuts. “Your dad’s _right there_ ,” I point out, under my breath, and Jason gives me this _look_.

“ _Really?_ ” he asks dryly, and then _yanks_ me down into him. I give a yelp that gets muffled by his mouth, and then I get involved in the awkward question of what the hell to do with my hands. He’s hurt and I can’t _touch_ him, except maybe like a thigh but Owlman is _right there_ and could totally see it if I did and I don’t know how much like a dad he really is. Jason lets me go, or at least lets me pull back a few inches, and shakes his head. “Moron,” he says between us, like it’s a fond nickname and I guess between the two of us, it kinda is.

“It’s reciprocated,” Tim offers, and Jason won’t let me pull any further away but I look over at him.

“What?”

He rolls his eyes, his mouth flickering in that tiny, satisfied smile that I’m used to seeing underneath the goggles and mask of Black Talon. “You love him, and it’s reciprocated.”

“Tim!” Jason snaps, and Tim gives a tiny shrug and looks totally unrepentant. “That’s—” I kiss Jason, cutting him off and reaching up, sliding a hand back along his cheek and into his hair. It’s not as strong as I want to be, and it’s definitely not the ‘whirl him around as the bells sound and laughter fills the air’ that’s happening in my chest, but it’s _so_ much more than enough. It’s— This is—

I laugh against his mouth, feeling the press of his hand against my shoulder and the totally linked warmth in my chest. No _way_. I was so sure that Jason didn’t love me, probably would _never_ love me, but Black Talon might be a liar but he’s not _cruel_. Lying about this would be cruel, and I think he nearly even likes me so he wouldn’t do that. Jason _loves_ me, how unbelievable is that? How _amazing?_ He’s incredible, powerful, handsome, talented beyond words, and he wants _me_. He loves _me_.

I don’t think I’m ever going to get tired of thinking that.

“Emotional _fools_ ,” comes Damian’s voice, at the edge of my perception. I break away from Jason, but not far, not at all. I couldn’t.

Jason blinks, looking at me, and I can feel his fingers flex in my shirt. I’m pretty sure I’ve got what anybody would call a dumb smile on my lips, but I just so don’t _care_. “Hey,” I whisper, smiling just a little wider. “I’d never ask for anything you weren’t comfortable giving, promise.”

There’s the deliberate tap of ceramic against wood, and I look over to watch Owlman push back from the table and get to his feet. Jason’s hand clenches in my shirt, but then he lets go as his dad — holy fuck I’m still marveling that Owlman is Jason’s _dad_ — starts around the table, behind Damian and then Tim, towards me. I let go of Jason’s hair and sit back in my chair, staring up as Owlman comes to a stop next to me and casually rests one hip against the table, watching me and I cannot get even the _slightest_ read on him.

He leans down towards me, reaching out, and I have to try really, _really_ hard not to flinch back when his fingers slide across my neck, thumb pressing against the underside of my chin and pushing up. I do swallow. _Hard_. He’s studying me, and I keep my hands very carefully on my thighs and try not to think about all the sharp or deadly things he has to have stashed in his clothes. Or about how fast he could pull one out. Or how unlikely it would be that I’d even notice before he’d slit my throat. _I disappointed him didn’t I?_

He gives a very small smirk, and releases me, straightening up. “He’ll do.” He looks past me, at Jason, as he stands off the table and brushes down wrinkles in his shirt that definitely don’t exist. “You can keep him, Jason. If you teach him.”

“Teach me?” I echo, as Owlman motions to Dick, who reaches forward to grip the tablet on the table and send it spinning across the surface towards us. Owlman swipes it off the table without a pause, and moves off without another glance. “Teach me what?” I ask at his back, and then turn back to the table when he leaves through the door Jason first came in by, not answering me. “Teach me what?” I repeat.

“To fight,” Dick answers easily, and gets to his feet.

“I know how to fight.”

“No you don’t,” Tim corrects, as Dick slips closer to Jason and leans up against his side, one hand sliding over his shoulders. “You’re one of us now, Roy, and if we’re claiming you as an Owl you have to live up to the name. We’ll make sure you do.”

For the first time, Damian smiles. Or at least he bares his teeth like he’s going to be ripping at my throat, which is way more accurate to the little demon and what I expect him to do. “Yes, _that_ at least should be fun.”

What did I just sign myself up for, and how likely is it I’m going to regret it? How badly is it going to hurt?

“Play nice, Damian,” Dick says smoothly, and then bends down and presses his lips to Jason’s forehead. Jason grumbles under his breath, and makes a face, but doesn’t move away. “I’m headed back to Bludhaven. Feel better, little wing, and let Roy take care of you for now.” Dick spares me a glance and a smile, and then tilts his head sideways and looks across the table to Tim and Damian. “Come on, come see me off.”

“Why?” Damian asks, as Tim slides off his chair and gets to his feet. “You’ll be back, why would I waste time watching you leave?”

“Someday,” Tim says quietly, reaching out to take Damian’s arm and pull him off his chair, “we’ll teach you the subtleties of normal human communication, Damian.”

“As _if_ you are one to speak about such a matter, predecessor. We are all aware that you lack any _true_ socialization skills; _Todd_ is a better conversationalist than you.” Tim pulls him away, and I watch Dick slide in on the other side, helping shepherd Damian out of the room. The door closes, and I look back to find a tiny grin on Jason’s face.

“Welcome to the family,” he says, reaching out and taking my hand again. “They’re fucking _nuts_ most of the time, but they’re not so bad.”

“Any tips?” I ask, and Jason snorts and shakes his head.

“Don’t be a coward, don’t be an idiot, and don’t let any of them push you around.” He squeezes my hand, and pulls me closer. “You’ll be fine, Roy. I’ll make sure they don’t step over the line.” He winces, and I scoot my chair a little closer and lean in to touch him. _Carefully_.

“You ready to head back to a bed?” I ask, and he gives a slow nod.

“Oh yeah, more than.” He leans a little closer to me and I meet his lead, kissing him softly. “Roy,” he says quietly, when he pulls back. “Words aren’t really my thing, and saying any of this out loud sort of— It doesn’t mean I don’t think it.”

I smile, and touch my forehead to his. “I’m not asking for anything, Jaybird. It doesn’t matter what you say, or _don’t_ say. I love you. I trust you. I didn’t think that was _ever_ going to be a two-way street, and I’m thrilled beyond freaking words that it _is_.” Jason is staring at me, and he’s starting to get that overwhelmed look that he does when I press that I think he’s important, that I’d _sacrifice_ for him. I squeeze his hand, and kiss him again for just a moment. It’s soft, and it’s gentle, and it’s _perfect_. “You’re here,” I whisper against his mouth, resting my forehead against his and not opening my eyes, “and that’s more than enough for me.”

Jason’s hand clenches down on mine, and then he tugs it loose and slides it up my arm, to my shoulder. “I— How the fuck did I get as lucky as you?” he asks, breathlessly, and alright _that_ is worth opening my eyes for. His are closed, but I can feel and _see_ him trembling. I wish I knew how much of that was pain and exhaustion, and how much is me overloading him. Which I did _not_ mean to do.

“Karma,” I answer after a second, raising my other hand to touch his cheek. “I think the world owes you me and a whole lot more for the shit it’s put you through.”

He opens his eyes, almost looking startled, and then cracks a grin and gives a quiet laugh. “You’re ridiculous,” he murmurs.

I sneak another kiss. “I’m proud of that,” I murmur back. “Now come on. I’ve never actually seen your room before, Jaybird, so you’ll have to tell me where to carry you.”

“You’re not carrying me,” he protests, with a snort, “but you can help me up.”

“Alright, I think I can probably take that deal.” I get Jason to his feet, leaning against me, with only some gritted teeth and a few sharp breaths, and wrap my arms around him. He’s still shaking a little bit, and I lean down and press my mouth against the side of his neck, letting him catch his breath against my shoulder. “Take as long as you need, Jaybird, for everything. I love you.”

“You’re going to wear it out,” he complains against my shoulder, hand clenching in the fabric of my shirt.

“Nonsense,” I snort, “that’ll _never_ get any less true no matter how much I say it. I can repeat it as often as it takes to get that through your head, promise.” I make a fake considering noise and tighten my grip on him for just a second, turning my head to press my mouth to his temple. “Maybe I could make a schedule. At least three times a day, four if there’s a fight, at least once in front of other people so I can get you embarrassed and there can be amazing sex. The other people are optional for that part. When you wake up, when you’re not expecting it, when—”

I cut off as Jason shakes and starts laughing against my shoulder, and then he leans back away from me, gasping. His head is tilted back, his eyes are watery, and his hand is tight in my shirt, steady even though I can feel him shaking in probably more than just laughter.

“Jason?” I ask, when he gives a particularly strong shudder and his gasps don’t die down. Oh I didn’t send him into some kind of attack or something right, _please?_ I think the Owls would more than murder me.

“You _moron_ ,” he gasps, all but collapsing against me, but at least I can feel his smile against my neck so he must not be actually mad. “Laughing hurts. _Ribs_. _Ow_.”

“Sorry,” I tease, “I will make the effort to be less entertaining until you’re healed.”

Jason pulls his head up, looking me in the eye with a half a snarl, even though he’s still gasping a bit. “Don’t you _dare_ , Roy.”

I blink, and then lean in with a smile and kiss him, running a gentle hand through his hair. “Love you too, Jaybird.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go! The conclusion is reached, Roy and Jason are firmly in love, and Dick is not-so-alright with it but Roy does not know that so it doesn't come up. I'll just say that Dick seeing this and immediately saying, 'And I'm going to Bludhaven, see you guys,' is not just him giving them space. We'll get to that, promise, though in a different, oneshot, story.


End file.
